Fifty Shades of Taylor
by sunandsurf
Summary: What does Jason Taylor think when he meets 23 year old Christian Grey? The story moves on to when Taylor meets Ana... and his red hot relationship with Gail.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The phone rings in the last innings of a Mariners game. I consider leaving it but old habits die hard.

"Yes?"

"Taylor. Fred Welch here. You got a minute?"

"Sure, sir, whatever you need."

"I might have something for you."

I sit up straighter. I could really use a new job. Sophie's dental and health insurance has drained my bank balance to almost nil. Usually my employer covers these things, but the last guy up and died on me – natural causes, of course – so I'm out of work until something comes in. I'd rather take an interesting job, but right now, I'll consider pretty much anything. So when my old CO told me he'd set up a private security business, you can bet I was interested.

"What's the job?"

"A new client. A self-made man who's just made his first billion. There have been some non-specific threats against him recently – to do with redundancies at a factory he bought. Nothing serious, but now he's in the super-rich league, he'll need 24/7. You interested?"

"Sure. What's the catch?"

Welch laughs. "You don't change, Taylor."

"No, sir. Like Mount Rushmore."

"And just as talkative. Well, I don't know that there is a catch. I'm still doing some deep background checks on him and apart from some drinking and fighting when he was a juvenile, and the fact that he dropped out of Harvard – no reason given, I'm coming up empty. He's young – 23 years old. That a problem?"

_Shit! A baby-sitting job?_

"It's not what you think, Taylor," says Welch, guessing my thoughts. "Just meet the man – make up your own mind."

_Fair enough. I can do that_.

"Ok, give me the time and location."

"1400 hours at his office tomorrow. And you'll need to sign an NDA before you speak to him."

I shrug. The type of people I work for spit out Non-Disclosure Agreements like so many apple seeds.

"Wait till you hear what he's prepared to pay – plus dental and health for you and your family."

Welch gives me a figure and I whistle. It's 50% more than my best ever job for a Saudi prince. But it makes me nervous, too. Someone who pays that much must have something to hide.

Welch gives me a downtown address and hangs up. I go back to the Mariners game. They've just lost. Again.

So, on a dull Tuesday afternoon I'm booted and suited and on my way to meet this Grey kid. I googled him last night and found a lot of fluff stories but not a single interview. All the usual stuff: so rich, so young; a little bit about his family – his mom's a paediatrician and his dad's a hotshot lawyer – figures; he's got a sister who's still at school and an older brother who has a successful construction business. Sure he does – these rich types keep the money in the family. The only other fact I can dig up is that the kid was adopted when he was four. Explains the lack of family likeness in the photos I found.

The 20 storey office block is new and I admit I'm impressed to see that he's got the whole building. A smart looking blonde receptionist gives me a security tag and sends me up to the top floor. From what I can see of the security guards and CCTV in the foyer, it's a pretty tight ship.

Grey's assistant is waiting for me when the elevator doors open. Another blonde. Hmm. The kid likes his blondes.

"This way, Mr Taylor. May I get you refreshments? Tea, coffee, water?"

"No, thank you."

She shows me into a large office and I get my first look at the kid.

He's taller than I expected, taller than me, and I can tell by looking at him, that he's built of hard muscle. He obviously works out. His eyes are cool and assessing me as thoroughly as I'm assessing him. When he shakes hands I can feel callouses. I remember reading that he was on the rowing squad at his fancy East coast college.

He points me to seat. He may be young but I was wrong to call him a kid: there's something about his eyes that's old – reminds me of men I served with in Iraq, men who'd seen too much. I wait for him to speak.

"Welch tells me I need a close personal protection unit and that you have experience in that area."

"Yes, sir." He hasn't asked me a question yet.

"My schedule is busy and it can change very quickly. I need someone who can be flexible. I understand you're separated from your wife?"

"Divorced, yes, sir."

"So 24/7 wouldn't be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good. There'll be a month's trial."

He pauses, measuring my response. I keep my face parked in neutral.

"I have live-in accommodation at my place at Escala. If that's to your satisfaction, when can you start?"

"Immediately, sir."

"Good. Andrea will give you the details."

He presses a button on his desk and the blonde assistant escorts me out.

That must be the quickest, goddam ever job interview I've ever had. And now I'm really curious to see his place.

I get back to my motel room and pack my bag. I won't be sorry to say goodbye to this dump. I've been living on the cheap to save money for Sophie. And her mother who has champagne tastes on beer money. But she's a good mother and I loved the bitch once, so I don't complain.

I drive over to Escala which is another smart, new building. Grey has made his money very recently and seems pretty keen on spending it, too. I punch in the entry code for the underground garage and park in the bay number I was given. I can't take my eyes off the R8 I park next to. I _really_ hope Mr Grey is going to need me to drive that some time. I also cast my eyes over the Audi SUV that's in the next bay. Looks like it's up to light armored level and has bulletproof windows. So far, so good.

The elevator code takes me to the Penthouse. There's another blonde waiting at the entrance. _What is it with Mr Grey and blondes?_ This one is older than the others, maybe five or six years older than me. Great legs and a warm, friendly smile.

"Mr Taylor? Welcome. I'm Gail Jones, Mr Grey's housekeeper. Let me show you to your room."

Housekeeper, huh? I hope Grey isn't fucking the staff – it just makes things too complicated.

The main room is huge. Christ! You could play ball in here! There's what looks like expensive art on the walls and a grand piano sitting in one corner. I wonder if he plays it or if it's just for show. Gail walks me past the CCTV room. I'll have to look at that thoroughly later.

I follow her along a corridor, appreciating the way her tasty ass fills out her smart, pencil skirt. _Shit! Mind on the job, Taylor. You're here to work and earn a fucking fortune!_

My room is large, light and airy, tricked out like a high class hotel, which I guess is what this whole apartment is. There's a state of the art flat screen and sound system. The best of everything for Mr Grey – and his staff.

"I cook for us all," says Gail, breaking into my thoughts. "We eat our meals in our private dining room and Mr Grey eats separately, of course. I'll be serving supper in an hour if you're hungry?"

"That would be great, thank you."

She smiles. It's such a sweet, kind smile that I can't help but smile back.

"I'm sure you'd like to look around the apartment," she says. "If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask me."

"Thanks. Where is Mr Grey?"

"He's in the gymnasium which is in the basement. He usually has a session with his personal trainer in the evenings."

I nod and watch as she leaves. I throw my bag on the bed and wander off to have a look round. As well as the staff quarters, which are bigger than most ordinary apartments, there are three guest bedrooms, Grey's home office, an impressive library with a competition-size pool table and a TV room that looks like it's hardly used. One of the doors is locked – I'll have to ask Gail about that later. Grey's bedroom is on the far side of the main room. I check and see that he's got a safe behind the painting in his bedroom. It's a picture of the sea, and very restful to look at. But again, the kind of picture a much older man would have.

This Grey guy is beginning to interest me.

I check out the CCTV room that will be my office. It's everything I could want and more. If I can work for this guy – which remains to be seen – technically, the job will be a breeze.

I spend a quarter of an hour checking out the other floors of the apartment block, as well as the fire escape and other access points. There's even a helipad on the room but it's all pretty secure.

Eventually I make my way back to the kitchen. The smells coming out of there are mouth-watering. It'll make a change from pizza and take-out.

"Hello, Mr Taylor," says Gail, when she sees me. "Everything to your satisfaction?"

"Just Taylor, please. One question: there's a locked room I haven't been able to access. Do you have a key to that? I'd like to check it out."

She raises her eyebrows and tries not to smile. She looks like she's got some private joke – and she's not going to share.

"That's Mr Grey's playroom. Here's the key."

_Playroom? What?_

I go back to the second floor of Grey's apartment and when I open the door, my jaw hits the fucking floor.

_?!*!?_

So that's it. This Grey is one twisted son-of-a-bitch! No wonder he's prepared to pay over the odds. I'm going to have to get one thing straight with him: if there's anything illegal or underage going on, I'm out of here. Obviously Gail knows and it doesn't seem to bother her. _Shit! Maybe she and Grey…_

I try to drive the thought out of my head. I can't imagine the prim and proper Ms Jones in here although now I've thought about it, that would be kinda hot. No. I have to talk to Grey himself about this.

I return the key to Gail without comment.

"It's not what it looks like," she says softly. "Well, I suppose it is… Mr Grey has a regular weekend guest, a Miss Saunders. I have the weekends off mostly, but I have met her on one occasion. She seems a pleasant young woman."

Discreet, Gail, very discreet. She's told me everything I need to know without revealing too much. Even so, I've got to have this out with Grey. At least I know now that he's not a homo. It wouldn't bother me if he was, but I need to know if I'm going to work for the guy. I had a client once who was into pothead rent boys and lowlife joints. No way I can do close protection for someone like that, someone who likes the danger.

I go back and sit in the CCTV room and think about what I want to say to him. I see on the monitors when he's on his way up in the elevator so I'm ready when he walks into the foyer.

"Taylor."

"Sir."

He's ringing with sweat after what must have been a punishing workout.

"Debrief in 10 minutes," he says.

"Sir."

He pulls off his T-shirt as he strides towards his room. I can't help noticing a series of small, white scars on his chest. There's no doubt in my mind what they are. I served with a guy who used to stub out cigarettes on his arm to show what a double-hard bastard he was. Those marks on Grey's chest are burn marks. But they're old. And I can't help thinking some fucking monster stubbed out their smokes on him when he was a kid. I doubt it was the good doctor and her hotshot lawyer husband, so it must have been before he was adopted.

It gives me another piece of the puzzle. I shake my head. I'm finding Grey too interesting. I just need to do my job.

I wait a few minutes and then head to his office to wait. I stand with my hands behind my back. When he enters he's casually dressed in jeans and a loose, white shirt and his hair is wet from the shower. His feet are bare and this says I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-me.

He points to a chair and I sit while he positions himself behind his desk.

"So you've had a look around the place?"

"Yes, sir. No access points of concern. I might need to adjust a couple of the CCTV cameras for better coverage and I'd like one more camera in the garage."

"Ok. Anything else?"

He raises an eyebrow. The bastard knows what I'm going to ask him. He's waiting for it.

"Your playroom, sir. I have to know that it's legal and consensual."

"It is."

I can't take him at his word – I think I'd rather see for myself. Well, not all of it, please god.

He pauses again.

"Any more questions?"

"I'll need a list of any prohibited visitors, as well as those who are permitted access."

"You'll find those in a file on your desk," he says, cool as ever.

"Thank you, sir. That's all."

"Good. If you wish to use the training room in the basement, the entry code is 1780. I won't need you again tonight, Taylor."

"Sir."

That was unexpected. Normally the people I work for don't like me using their facilities – certainly not at the same time as them. But I don't get that feeling from Grey. Strange.

As I walk back to the kitchen, Gail has plated up a meal for him. It sure smells good.

"Are you ready to eat, too, Taylor?" she says pleasantly.

"Yes, thank you."

I follow her into the dining room… _our_ dining room. Chicken chasseur with green beans and potatoes. Suddenly I'm mouth-wateringly hungry.

"How long have you worked for Mr Grey, Ms Jones?"

"Please, call me Gail. Just a few months now. It's been… interesting."

I bet.

"Anything I need to know… from a security point of view?"

"He doesn't go out of his way to make himself liked," says Gail carefully. "But I believe he's a good man. A troubled man, I think, but a good one, nonetheless. Mr Grey works very hard – a punishing schedule, I'd say."

This interests me.

"What's a typical schedule?"

"He goes for a run about six in the morning – sometimes earlier – unless he has a business breakfast. He'll leave for the office about 7.30am and I usually don't see him again until 8 or 9 in the evening. He works out with Claude Bastille, his personal trainer every week night, and then works in his study till late. I don't see him most weekends, as you can imagine."

No, I imagine not.

"Does he go out much?"

"His parents and sister at Bellvue; his brother, Elliott, lives in the city."

"Anything else?"

"Fundraisers, occasionally, business dinners."

Jeez. Is this guy 23 or 53?

"Friends?"

"Well… there's Mrs Lincoln. A friend of his mother's, I believe."

"No guy friends?"

"Not that I've seen. Mr Grey is… something of a loner, I'd say. Now, can I offer you dessert? We have vanilla ice cream or cheese and biscuits."

Gail has given me a lot to think about. It's obvious she likes Grey, in a maternal sort of way. But she's no fool either and I can't help thinking that someone like her, a decent person, wouldn't work for Grey if he was a really sick fucker. But I'll just have to make up my own mind on that; after all, Gail isn't around at the weekends. And I'll be very interested to meet a certain Miss Saunders.

About midnight I decide to call it a day. Grey is still working, just like Gail said. When I knock and enter his office he's poring over spreadsheets. Just looking at all those tiny figures gives me a headache. But then again I suppose that's why I'm breaking my ass as close protection to a sick fucker who has whips and handcuffs in his playroom, and the he's the bastard who's hiring me.

"Will that be all, sir?"

I'm polite as fuck.

"Yes, thank you, Taylor," he says quietly.

"I understand you like to go for a run in the mornings, sir?"

He frowns and looks up at me when he realises what I'm saying: that I intend to go with him. If he refuses, I'm out of here. I can only work with people who let me do my job.

"Of course. Six am, Taylor."

"Sir."

I figure this guy must be one of those people who doesn't need much sleep as it's already pretty late. Luckily I can survive on five or six hours so it doesn't really bother me. I was in the Marines long enough not to bother about broken sleep and long hours.

My bed smells wonderful and the sheets are clean and crisp. Thank you, Gail. There are certainly fringe benefits to working here. Gratefully, I slide under the covers and fall asleep immediately.

At about four in the morning I'm woken suddenly. _What the fuck was that?_

I'm on my feet in seconds, gun in hand, and sprinting across the main room. There must be an intruder. Another scream – louder – someone in pain. The scream comes from Grey's bedroom.

I burst through the door, gripping my gun with both hands and scan the dark room quickly. There's no-one there – just Grey, covered in sweat, and very pale. My entrance has woken him up. He looks around him, confused, his eyes wide with fear and I can see that his heart rate is through the ceiling. Then his eyes fix on me and I see awareness flood back. He shakes his head as if to clear it.

"Everything ok, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Taylor. Sometimes I have nightmares."

He doesn't say anything else but I can see he's shaken. I walk back to my room slowly, my thoughts heavy. I've heard those sorts of screams before, from men who've seen too much. I think of the scars I've seen and realise the ones I can't see are even deeper.

As I sink back into bed, I hear the piano playing softly in the main room. The music is complex and superbly played, but overwhelmingly sad in tone. Mr Grey is a man of many talents – and many secrets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I've set my alarm for 5.30am but I'm awake before it goes off. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and my running shoes. They're looking pretty worn. I'll replace them when I get my first pay check.

I pull on my shoulder holster and check my weapon. The holster is an X-project style: I find it the most comfortable to wear for hours at a time, and it's definitely the best for going running in. My weapon is the most valuable thing in my life, other than Sophie, of course. It's a Korth 357 Combat revolver, custom made. The frame, yoke and barrel shroud are made from Aluminum-Scandium, the cylinder is Titanium and the barrel liner is steel. It's 40% lighter than a standard handgun. And it's also been one of the best decisions I've ever made. You could call it a life saver.

I've got a light, cotton jacket to wear over my T-shirt when I'm running. It conceals the Korth pretty well.

I get to the foyer seconds before Grey. These rich types don't do waiting and I'm not sensing that patience is one of Mr Grey's virtues.

He frowns when he sees me.

"A gun?"

_Of course!_ "Yes, sir."

"I don't like guns, Taylor."

Nobody _likes _guns: they're a tool like a spade or a shovel – as good or bad as the man using it. I remember my old man telling me that – but I have a feeling he took the line from someone else. I feel like rolling my eyes at Grey, but I don't. That would be a quick way to get fired.

"It's how I do my job, sir."

Make or break time: if he tells me not wear my weapon, I'm walking. He frowns again, but doesn't say anything as we move to the elevator. I break the stony silence first.

"What route do you usually take, sir?"

"Towards Pike Market and back along the waterfront. It's a 6 mile circuit."

"May I suggest, sir, that we vary this route each day?"

He sighs.

"Sure."

He sets a fast pace once we're outside. Unlike some of the people I've worked for I can see that he's not doing it to impress me; that's just the speed he goes.

The streets are pretty empty at this time and there's very little traffic. To anyone watching, we'd probably just look like two buddies out for a run. But all the time I'm scanning the surroundings and assessing the situation: parked cars, anyone with overt interest, anyone acting suspiciously. It would make my life easier if he used a treadmill, but I get why he wants to run outside. The threats against him have been mostly low level; Welch's daily updates will pick up any increase in the level of concern.

Fifty minutes later we're back at the apartment block. It's been a pretty good work out. In some jobs the client expects me to sit on my candy-ass all day 24/7 and still maintain peak fitness. So you could say that some clients just sit with their fingers up their asses when it comes to intelligence. But not this week.

I take a quick shower and head to the staff kitchen.

Gail is standing at the stove. Boy, she looks good: starched apron, immaculate white blouse. I wouldn't mind helping her crease that. Hmm. My thoughts are getting carried away without needing anymore help from me. She's set a place for me at the small breakfast bar instead of in the staff dining room. Everything smells great. I could get used to this.

"Good morning, Taylor. What would you like for breakfast? There's a full range of cereals including oatmeal, fruit, eggs, bacon and pancakes."

"That all sounds good, Gail. Whatever is easiest."

"Mr Taylor," she says with a tone of mock severity, "you and I will get along swimmingly if you tell me what you do and don't like to eat." She smiles her warm smile, to take the edge off her words. Not that I'm offended; far from it.

"I'd like bacon and pancakes, please, Gail."

"Good! Maple syrup?"

I shake my head. I can't face that much sugar in the morning.

She whips some pancake batter into a pan and two minutes later I'm tucking into delicious dime pancakes and crisp bacon. Damn, her coffee is good, too. I note that she takes Grey a plate of egg white omelet and a small bowl of blueberries with yoghurt.

She returns quickly.

"Mr Grey says he will be ready to leave in 20 minutes."

"Thanks."

I drink my coffee and watch as she moves efficiently around the kitchen. If my gaze bothers her, she shows no sign of it. She's clearly at ease with her job and very professional.

I'm ready and waiting in the foyer when Grey appears. He looks preoccupied. He tosses me a car key.

"You drive."

"Yes, sir." They key fob says 'Audi' and I remember seeing the SUV in the garage.

Gail enters the foyer and it reminds me of my mom seeing me off to school. The thought makes me smile, but I hide it quickly.

"I won't be back until late this evening, Mrs Jones, so if you could leave out something cold, please."

"Of course, Mr Grey. Have a good day, sir."

_Shit! _Mrs _Jones? She's married?_ I'm surprised by the surge of disappointment I feel. Probably just as well – mind on the job, Taylor.

We travel down to the garage in silence. I sense that Grey doesn't do polite chat. Suits me. I'm not here to be his friend. He goes to exit the elevator first.

"Excuse me, sir?"

He takes the hint and lets me go first. Yep, all clear: nothing unusual to worry about.

I point the fob at the SUV and the lights flash once. I open the rear door for Grey and he gets in without speaking. As I slide into the driver seat I note with approval that he puts on his seatbelt without me having to remind him. Careful Mr Grey. I like that in a client.

It's 7.15 in the morning and we're barely out the garage before his cell rings.

"Ros? What? Yes. Ten minutes. Tell Andrea to set it up."

Mr Grey insists that I drop him off at the front of his building. I'd rather have taken him into the underground lot where it's more private, but he's in no mood for waiting. He tells me to come to his office once I've parked.

There are only two other vehicles already there: a sporty Saab and a little Audi A2.

Security check me out as I enter the building: they know who I am so introductions aren't necessary but they do their job. I make my way to the top floor as I did yesterday and the blonde is just leaving Grey's office.

"Good morning, Mr Taylor. I'm Andrea Parker, Mr Grey's Personal Assistant. We met yesterday. He's asked me to explain his schedule for the week. You'll liaise with me for the day-to-day timings."

That makes things simple. Grey certainly likes to be organised.

"Andrea!"

I hear Grey yelling from his office. He sounds pissed about something.

"Where's Taylor?"

"You'd better go in," she whispers, looking slightly flustered.

I enter and see that Grey isn't alone. He's with a tall, strong-looking woman with short brown hair. Hmm, not a blonde.

"Ros, this is Taylor; Taylor, Ms Bailey."

"Hello, Taylor."

"Ma'am." I know from Welch's notes that Ros Bailey is Grey's number two guy, er, woman, er, colleague.

Andrea enters with a notebook. When she looks at Grey, she flushes and her hands shake a little. _What?_ I catch Ros rolling her eyes and she smirks at me.

Ok, I get it. Ms Bailey isn't interested in Grey, for obvious reasons. It's also obvious that Andrea is – and she's getting nowhere fast. Odd, I thought he liked blondes. Maybe he's smart enough not to fuck the staff.

The thought takes me back to Gail. I haven't figured that one out yet. _Married._ Hmm.

"Taylor, we'll be flying down to Portland this morning from Boeing. A change to the schedule: meeting at WSU. Leaving in five. Andrea, we'll need a car from PDX and reschedule my morning meetings for later in the week."

On the way out to Boeing, Grey gets a constant stream of phonecalls on his cell. Jeez, if I had that many calls while I was driving my safety record would be considerably dented. Most of them are short: Grey makes decisions quickly. The only person he seems to have longer calls from is Ros.

At Boeing we're met by a guy I recognise slightly as one of the flight instructors. He nods at me.

"Mr Grey, she's all ready for you, sir. Only three weeks to go now."

I don't know what they're referring to but for the first time since I've met him, Grey smiles. For a second he looks his age, then the barrier comes down again and he's talking wind speeds, air quality and visibility. I infer that Grey is making up his hours with a view to taking his pilot's licence.

He runs through the pre-flight checks with his usual competence. I don't like flying much: the memory of being shot at whilst airborne and being able to do fuck-all about it has never gone away; but his thoroughness is reassuring. Slightly. I try very hard not to grip onto my seat. It's not done for the muscle to show white knuckles.

Fifty minutes later, Grey puts the chopper down on a brownstone building in Portland. Sol, the instructor hasn't had to give him a single correction.

An old timer welcomes him back.

"Thanks, Joe. We'll be back for her about noon, I hope. Maybe a little later."

"Yes, sir, Mr Grey. Have a good day, sir."

We're on our way to WSU when Grey's cell rings again. I see his eyes flick up to me in the rear view mirror.

"Welch, I'm going to put this on speakerphone so Taylor can hear."

He taps a button and my old CO's voice fills the car.

"An impromptu demonstration has been organised outside the Farming Division building, sir. Not serious, but could be messy."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" yells Grey suddenly, running his hand through his hair.

I'm surprised: I haven't heard him lose his temper before. It seems to have come out of the blue.

"What have those fucking students got against feeding fucking developing countries?"

Welch's reply is calm, pragmatic. "They think the research is to do with GM, sir."

"Ignorant fuckers," snarls Grey.

"The administration has suggested you use the rear entry, sir."

For some reason his words make Grey smile. "Ok. I'll take it under advice."

He snaps off the phone, his equilibrium apparently restored.

"We'll enter round the back, Taylor," he says evenly.

As we approach WSU I can see small groups of students beginning to congregate. Automatically I lock the doors. I don't usually drive with locked doors in case there's an accident – emergency services lose time forcing locked doors – but in this sort of situation, or slow moving traffic, I do. Grey doesn't speak, he just watches me, his face impassive. He doesn't seem particularly phased at the thought of being a target for an angry, student mob.

The rear of the facility is quiet: clearly the students aren't that well organised. Grey stalks inside to be met by an anxious looking professor type.

"Mr Grey, I'm so sorry that you've been inconvenienced. I can assure you that the… er… demonstration is not the opinion of all our students. I do hope it won't influence your decision adversely. Ahem. The team here are very excited to meet you… that you've taken such an interest in their work."

"Thank you, Dr Greenberg. After you."

"Er, yes, of course, of course! This way."

I'm slightly puzzled as to the reason for our visit. I don't need to know, strictly speaking, but I'm interested. And, if I need to justify myself, it helps if I know a little of the client's business. I assume Grey is involved in agrichemicals of some description but at Dr Greenberg chats away, showing us around a series of dull looking laboratories and into some hothouses that have desert like temperatures, I begin to understand that Grey is considering being some sort of benefactor. This surprises me. I'd assumed that being so rich so young, money was his only motivating factor. But apparently not. Yet another Grey-shaped mystery.

He waves away offers of coffee which is a pity. After the disrupted night and early start, I could really use a shot of caffeine. But my job is to be wallpaper, until I'm needed.

Finally we're led into a meeting room. I stand by the door while Grey takes a seat. Every other person in the room is at least twice his age but there's no doubt he commands the room with quiet authority.

"Is there, er, anything else you'd like to ask us, Mr Grey," wheezes Dr Greenberg.

"Your grant application isn't viable, Dr Greenberg," says Grey.

The expectant, hopeful faces of the assorted academics and scientists are suddenly bereft.

"May… may I ask in what way?" asks the stalwart old professor.

"You'll need a larger student body to meet your goals," says Grey dispassionately, "and you need to accelerate the plans for crop rotation to pre-empt changes to the statutory research guidelines. In short: you need considerably more capital than you have budgeted for."

A distressed silence fills the room.

"I propose that you increase your budget to $2.5 million on an annual basis for the next seven years if you wish to achieve all you have set out to achieve."

The good professor gapes at him. "Mr Grey! We have… little hope or raising so much money. Our fundraisers are all volunteers. Our work cannot attract that sort of interest when there is no financial incentive for businesses to do so. Not that your business, I mean…"

He looks distraught and I feel sorry for him. Clearly he's passionate about his work.

A small smile flickers across Grey's face.

"You misunderstand me, Dr Greenberg. I'm saying that Grey Enterprises Holdings will fund your work here: $2.5 million annually for a term of seven years, to be reviewed in 13 months."

_Fuck! _Did I just hear right? Grey is planning to give away $17.5 million dollars? From the expression on the face of everyone else, I'm not the only one wondering if they have a problem with earwax.

"You… you wish to… _proceed_?!"

"Indeed, Dr Greenberg," says Grey quietly. "I'll have my people send over the paperwork."

He stands suddenly and the professor jumps.

"I… we… can't thank you enough, Mr Grey. This is most generous… most generous indeed!"

"I look forward to seeing the positive results of your team's research, Dr Greenberg. Thank you for your time."

"No, no! Thank _you_, Mr Grey. I'm sure the university's public relations team will be delighted to..."

Grey scowls and the professor visibly quails.

"No publicity!"

"No… no publicity?" The professor looks confused.

"None," says Grey with finality.

He shakes hands with the professor who is looking rather limp and then stalks from the room, business concluded.

_I really don't get this guy._ He's just given away a formidable chunk of his own capital and he doesn't want anyone to know? Hmm.

It's late by the time we finally head back to Escala. I'm looking forward to seeing what Gail… I mean, _Mrs_ Jones has made for dinner. But we've barely exited the elevator when a tall, beautiful girl with short brown hair throws herself at Grey.

"Christian, surprise!"

Surprise?! Jeez! She nearly gave me a heart attack. My hand was half way to my gun, for crissake.

I can't help frowning. This girl looks young – _too young_.

"There you are, darling!"

I look away from the girl and see an attractive older woman walking towards us. _Oh!_ I recognise her from the photographs: she's Grey's mother, so the girl must be his sister.

I relax immediately.

"Who's he?" says the girl, looking at me.

"Taylor. He works for me, Mia," says Grey. "Taylor, this is my mother, Doctor Grace Trevelyan-Grey and my sister Mia."

"Hi, Taylor!" says the girl – Mia. "Nice to meet you."

She holds out her hand.

"Ma'am."

She giggles. We shake hands and she peeks up at me through her eyelashes.

"Have you got a gun?" she says.

I'm taken aback.

"Mia!" says her mother, shaking her head.

"I was just asking!" says Mia, pouting. "Have you?"

"That's enough, Mia," says Grey, looking angry.

To my surprise she completely ignores him. "Don't be so bossy, Christian," she says rolling her eyes then turns back to me. "I bet you have got a gun. Everyone disapproves of that, you know."

I don't know what to reply to that so I make my escape to the staff quarters.

I haven't counted on the tenacious Miss Grey following me.

"I think it's cool that Christian has a bodyguard," she says, eyeing me up and down.

"I prefer the term close personal protection, Miss Grey."

"It's the same thing though, isn't it," she says giggling. "Christian's a lot of trouble, you know. He drives everyone mad. But I think he likes you… I can see why."

I don't know if it's particularly hot in the kitchen but I'm suddenly feeling rather hot under the collar. I walk around the breakfast bar to give me some distance from the force of nature that is Mia Grey.

"You look very strong, Taylor. Do you work out? I bet you do. I used to do Judo but I hated it. What did you do before you looked after Christian? Were you a soldier? I bet you were. My friends are going to be so jealous when I tell them I've met a real bodyguard."

She follows me round the breakfast bar. I feel like I'm being stalked. _Shit!_ I don't have an escape route unless I actually climb over the breakfast far. Believe me, I'm considering it.

Suddenly Gail walks into the kitchen. I have never been so fucking glad to see back-up.

"Hi, Gail!" trills Mia. "I was just asking Taylor all about himself. Don't you think he's a hunk?"

"Good evening, Miss Grey," says Gail calmly, although she looks a little pink. "Mr Grey has asked to see you in the main room."

Mia pouts. "Oh, Christian's always spoiling my fun. Never mind, Taylor, I'm sure we'll be seeing lots of each other. Bye!"

She blows me a kiss, hugs Gail, and hurtles back to the main room.

"Are you alright?" says Gail sympathetically. "Miss Grey can be a little… overwhelming."

_Oh, fucking yes!_

"You are a sight for sore eyes, Gail," I manage to croak. "I thought I was going to have to shoot my way out of here."

She laughs but I can see that she's blushing, too, and I realise how else my words can have been interpreted. I blame little Miss Grey.


	3. Chapter 3

The end of the week coincides with the end of the financial month. Grey has ditched his morning run for a session with his personal trainer.

I've heard of Claude Bastille: he's very choosy who he takes on as a client. He's not interested in soft executives who eat too much and drink too much and think they can stave off a stroke by raising their heart rate once a week. He and Grey are well matched: focussed to the point of fanaticism; hardcore. I watch for a while as they try to kick the shit out of each other then wander back to the CCTV room which has become my office. I've got some reading to do on some of Grey's staff. There are 3,209 at Grey House alone, all with potentially close access to him. Welch's firm have already done background checks, but I like to be thorough – my client's life and my life could depend on it.

I'm surprised to see an envelope on the desk with my name on it in Grey's handwriting. It makes me frown. He hasn't said anything: if he's going to fire me, surely he'd have the balls to tell me in person?

But when I open it two things fall out: a thick wad of paper that turns out to be a permanent contract; and a check for a ridiculously large amount of money. It's far more than I'd agreed with Welch. I don't get what's going on. Is he paying me for several months in advance? Is it a mistake? That seems unlikely: Grey doesn't do mistakes. I decide it must be a test: he wants to know if I'm honest and that I'll point out the error to him. I'm slightly disappointed that he'd try such an obvious tactic. Normally clients test me by leaving out their fucking Rolexes.

I can see from the CCTV that Grey's workout with Bastille has been concluded and he's soon strolling through the foyer. I decide to wait until Gail has fed him before I ask him what's the fucking story; I've figured out that he's usually in a slightly better mood when he's not hungry.

Thinking about Gail irritates me. I still haven't asked her whether or not she's married. We've talked some and I know she's got a sister in Portland, but she hasn't mentioned a husband. It occurs to me that I could just look her up in Grey's files, but somehow that seems an invasion of her privacy. _Oh for fuck's sake! I'm Grey's personal security – I'm supposed to know stuff like this!_ But even so, I can't quite bring myself to do it. I'm getting fucking soft.

When Grey heads for his office I wait a moment then knock on his door.

"What?" he snarls. So much for him being in a better mood after eating.

I show him the check. "I wanted to ask you about this, sir."

"Well? What about it?"

"It's more than we agreed."

He frowns. "For your daughter's pre-school."

He turns back to his computer screen as if that's obvious enough.

"Could you explain that, sir?"

He runs his hand through his hair in irritation, a gesture I've become familiar with over the last week.

"To pay for your daughter's pre-school education, Taylor."

He hands me a piece of paper.

"A list of the three best pre-school in your ex-wife's district. Choose whichever you think."

And I'm lost for words.

"But… I haven't signed the permanent contract… yet, sir."

"Will you?" he frowns up at me.

"Yes, sir," and I see an expression I can't identify pass across his face.

"Thank you, Taylor."

He turns back to the screen again. I'm being dismissed.

"Thank you for the school fees, sir."

"Ok." He doesn't turn to look at me but carries on studying columns of minute figures.

I'm… surprised. It's not just the money, although I really appreciate that, it's the fact that he's found out and printed a list of suitable schools.

I'm about to sign his permanent contract when I remember what Gail said about his weekend 'guest'. I think I'll hold off signing until I've met a certain Miss Saunders. I'm a cautious man.

"Jason?"

Gail's soft voice interrupts my dour thoughts. She's not wearing her usual uniform of skirt and white blouse. She's wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt – and she looks damn fine, the way the denim clings to her hips and…

"I'm off now, Jason," she continues. "I've left some cold cuts in the fridge and a list of frozen dishes by the microwave if you want a hot meal. And there's a list of places who'll deliver take-out if the microwave proves too much of a challenge." Her teasing smile takes the sting out of her words. "I'll be back Sunday evening. You have my cell number?"

"Oh, sure, Gail. What about food for Mr Grey?"

"I think you'll find that Miss Saunders will take care of anything he wants," she says kindly. "I believe she's expected about eight o'clock this evening."

I'm impressed that there's no hint of condescension in her voice. Whatever she thinks of what goes on _in that playroom_, it doesn't affect the way she does or job, or the way she talks about her employer. _Very professional, Gail_.

"Ok, see you Sunday."

She waves and leaves and I find the thought of rattling around the Penthouse alone, trying to avoid my employer and his guest, an unpalatable prospect. But I'm not paid to enjoy myself. So I pull Miss Saunders file. The first page is unremarkable except that I note she's more than ten years older than Grey. This makes me frown: he likes older women? _If he tries anything with Gail, I'll fucking crucify the bastard_. The second page is standard stuff: education (_two_ degrees?), bank account details, employment record (_museum curator_?), but when I read the rest of the file my jaw hits the fucking floor. It's a formal agreement that sets out a list of sexual activities that I can't even spell. Christ! People really enjoy all _that?_ Either I've been watching the wrong porn films or I need to get out a bit more. _Jesus wept._ But at the same time I can see that it's a formal agreement between two sane, consenting adults; although now I think about it, I'm reconsidering the definition of 'sane'. I mean, what kind of person _wants _to be hurt?

But then again, there were guys in the Marines I knew who liked to push the limits of what their bodies would take physically, but the whole dom/submissive relationship is not something I've thought about before. I've certainly never met any women who would agree to do exactly what I tell them when I tell them. Although having been married for six years to the Bitch, I'm kinda wishing… actually, no, not even then.

No, I've just got to think of it as a business arrangement. And for someone like Grey, I guess it makes more sense than to just get a hooker off the street. Particularly with his specialist requirements. It's still a lot to get my head round. I'm now really intrigued to meet Miss Wendy Alison Saunders.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts.

"Taylor, I want to leave in five minutes."

"Sir."

And the phone goes dead. I get my ass into gear and haul it down to the garage.

Once we're at Grey House, his PA, the lovely Andrea, gives me his schedule for the coming week. Jeez, could it get any more dull? Fundraisers, business dinners, a gala night at the opera. Ok, that might be his idea of a good time as he's into that whole classical music shit, but I mean, come on! _The guy's 23! _And the Saturday night is another fundraiser at his parents' home in Bellevue. I groan to myself: I'll need a week to prepare for another meeting with Miss Grey. Full body armour, perhaps? She looked like she might tackle me at any moment. Christ, are all the Greys that intense?

I sit at my desk and read some more personnel files. Then I check out the pre-schools that Grey recommended. They really do look amazing. I've no idea how to choose between them – the one where the kids are the happiest, I guess. I wonder when I'll get the chance to check them out: if the money's coming from my account, I'm sure not leaving it up the Bitch to choose.

At six, I'm waiting in the garage for Grey. He seems more pissed than usual. I wonder whose head he's bitten off today. I really hope that getting laid takes the edge off his temper – otherwise the guy's gonna explode.

The only person at the office who stands up to him is his number two, Ros Lindt. They've been together from the start, from what I can work out, and he relies on her, as much as he relies on anyone. She's pretty good at calming him down when no-one else dares go near him. Although Andrea must be tougher than she looks to have lasted nine months as his assistant; or just maybe she's just damn good at her job.

His phone rings for the third time on the short journey back to Escala. I feel sorry for whoever's calling.

"Mia. What do you want?"

Oh, the sister. We should have sent her against Saddam Hussein: it would all have been over much more quickly.

"No, you can't … because I'm busy … oh, for fuck's sake, Mia! Ok, tomorrow at two … what? No, you fucking can't … No!"

He snaps off the phone but beneath the irritation I can see that he's fond of his little sister. Maybe she reminds him of him. Jeez. Poor kid.

I'm wondering if he's going to say anything to me about his 'guest'. Perhaps he's just assumed that Gail has told me everything I need to know. But as we exit the car in the garage he says,

"Miss Saunders will be here at 8pm, Taylor. I won't need you again tonight but I'll be going for my run at 6am as usual."

"Yes, sir."

So he's going to screw all night and go running before dawn? Christ! _The man is a fucking machine!_

At 7.55pm the CCTV shows a blue Audi A3 pull into one of Grey's parking bays in the garage. Miss Saunders is punctual. I can't see her face clearly on camera but I note that she has long, brown hair. I thought Grey only liked blondes?

I get up and go to meet her in the foyer.

She walks out of the lift and stops when she sees me.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"Oh! Hello! Who are you?"

"Taylor, ma'am. Mr Grey is expecting you."

"I know," she says smiling. She winks and walks past me.

I don't get it. She seems so nice and normal.

Feeling slightly reassured, I head back to my quarters and eat the delicious turkey salad that Gail has left out for me. I try to watch a Seahawks game but I can't concentrate. I know that I'm listening out for… well, I don't know, screams, maybe. I know Grey's playroom is soundproofed but I can't help myself. It's the same feeling I had when we knew an op was going down: waiting for the 'go' signal. _Get a grip, Taylor – they're consenting adults. It's none of your fucking business!_

I sprawl out on the couch for a bit longer and see if a couple of beers will help me chill. I miss Gail's easy company. _Yeah, and you still don't know if she's married, let alone interested in you, moron._

Feeling like a creep, I decide I've got to go read her file. I tell myself that I'm just doing my job, but I don't believe myself. Plus, it's something to do while I wait for my brain to turn off.

Whilst I'm sitting at my desk in the CCTV room, I get an email from the Bitch. She wants money, of course. This time to take herself and Sophie on a holiday to see her mom in Santa Barbara. I email her and tell her she'll have the money first thing on Monday morning: it's not like I don't have it, after all. Jeez – she emails back to say 'thanks'. That's a first.

It's 1am and my head is starting to feel fuzzy with tiredness. I've read another 124 personnel files from Grey House and I can't concentrate anymore. I'm suddenly aware that Grey is standing behind me. I get up quickly.

"Sir."

"Why are you still working, Taylor?"

He's wearing a pair of ripped jeans and has a faint sheen of sweat on his chest. _Christ! The guy has been screwing for five hours? Talk about stamina!_ I mean, I know guys like to boast about that stuff but that's all it is, boasting. At least he looks less pissed.

"Just about to head to my room, sir."

He stares at me and he looks like he's suppressing a smile. The bastard knows I've been waiting to see if anything has happened to Miss Saunders. He seems to read my mind.

"Miss Saunders has gone to bed," he says calmly. "I'll be working in my office for a while."

"Sir."

He knows that I know what he's been doing, and he doesn't give a flying fuck.

This is one of the strangest jobs I've ever had… and I've been here less than a week. Shaking my head, I switch off the computer screen, take one last look at the CCTV monitors and head off.

When the alarm on my phone goes at 5.30am I'm tempted to hurl it through the window. Instead I drag on my sweats and running shoes, shave so quickly I nearly cut my throat, and am standing in the foyer at 5.59am.

Grey appears on time, as usual, and apart from the fact he's unshaved, he looks like he's had eight hours of blissful sleep in his mommy's arms, when I know for a fact his bed is barely on first name terms with him.

I wonder if this morning's run will be shorter than usual but no, the same punishing pace for six miles. He hasn't booked his trainer for the weekend but frankly a five hour fuck makes even Bastille's sessions look half-assed.

When we get back I'm surprised to see Miss Saunders in the kitchen but from Grey's lack of interest, I guess it's his usual routine, if you could say that anything about Grey's routine is 'usual'.

He stalks off to his bedroom without speaking to her and I'm left hanging in the main room like a bad smell.

I try to make a discreet exit but Miss Saunders skewers me with the bright, brown gaze.

"Hi, Taylor!"

"Good morning, ma'am," I mutter, knowing that I'm blushing. How fucking unprofessional is that?

I skulk around in the staff quarters having a shower and eating a bowl of granola with honey until I think it's safe to cross the main room back into my office without being spotted. There's a knack to being invisible when you live with your employer: Grey is so unpredictable, it's harder than usual for me to achieve.

I'm half way across the main room when I hear the door of the playroom bang shut. _Again? _Un-fucking-believeable. There's a note on my desk from him telling me to be available for driving duties at 1.30pm.

Three hours and 47 personnel files later, an alarm on one of the monitors indicates that the fire door on the second floor has been opened. I'm up the stairs two at a time with my gun in my hand but when I get there, there's nothing to see; the door is firmly closed. I suspect it's faulty wiring. I make a note to get an engineer in asap, and sheathe my weapon.

I turn when I hear soft footsteps behind me. Grey is carrying Miss Saunders. He's wearing the same, ripped jeans that I saw last night. She's wearing a white bathrobe and has her arms around his neck. It's a strangely intimate moment and I feel like a voyeur. It's so not what I expected, not having read about their strange relationship. Grey catches my eye but he doesn't speak. He simply carries Miss Saunders to her room and lays her gently on her vast, white bed, steps out and closes the door behind him.

"Problem, Taylor?" he's frowning at me.

"The monitor showed an alarm going off at this stairwell. But it's secure: I think it's faulty wiring – I'll call an engineer."

He nods and stalks off down the corridor. And I see again that he has more burn scars on his back. Poor fucked up bastard.

**Thanks to everyone who's sent reviews – really appreciated. I'm having a blast writing about Taylor and his what-the-butler-saw experiences. I'm going to write about his developing relationship with Gail but after that, do you want more of these early days, or should I go straight to the first meeting with Ana? Please let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Lots of ex-servicemen get nightmares: real screaming fucking shits. But it's nothing compared to how I feel at the thought of an afternoon on a small yacht with a certain Miss Mia Grey.

For a start, I'm not a great sailor. _Yeah, yeah, I know, ex-Marine, ought to have seawater in his veins_, but there's a helluva difference between being on a 40,000 ton Naval destroyer and a fucking 33 foot canoe with a teenager whose hormones are more rampant than an armoured tank division and whose come-to-bed eyes are flashing fucking neon.

"Hi, Taylor! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, ma'am."

"It's going to be such _fun_ to go sailing, isn't it? Do you like sailing? I _love sailing_. It's one of my favourite things in the whole world. Christian loves sailing, too, don't you, Christian?"

He doesn't bother to reply but I can see him rolling his eyes.

I've met the whole Grey family en masse for the first time. A family day of enforced enjoyment is not my idea of fun, well, not since I got divorced, but the Greys seem to get on well enough. In fact it's kinda weird to see my boss unwind to such an extent. I swear I actually saw him smile, although it was just the once.

I did a quick check of the family yacht just to make sure there was nothing obvious awry but it all looked shipshape. _Look, I'm trying to get into the fucking spirit of things, ok?_ But Grey sussed that I wasn't A-ok with the whole set-up.

"Problem, Taylor?"

"Er… I think I'd better stay with the vehicles on land, sir," I say, nervously flicking my eyes towards Miss Grey, who blows me a kiss _whilst my boss is watching, for fuck's sake!_

His eyes narrow and I think he's got every right to fire my sorry ass, but instead he says,

"Good point, Taylor. I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Jeez. That was a close shave.

Mia pouts at him. I mean she actually pouts. I can see her mother having words with her. Frankly, if I were her father, I'd buy a ball and chain and a shotgun and hire a 24/7 bodyguard: a female, ex-Soviet, shot-putter bodyguard might do it. Just.

Grey Sr comes over to talk to me. _I don't do talking_. But I'm polite and answer his clever-assed lawyer questions in a neutral way. _I don't care if you are my client's father, I'm still not telling you jack-shit_. Oddly, he seems pleased by my taciturn responses and I sense I've passed some sort of test with him.

He's obviously very fond of his son but they're all kind of formal with him: no hugging, not even from the mother. Although little Miss Grey seems to follow a set of her own rules. No surprise there. She hugged him hard enough to fell a linebacker but he just grinned down at her, which was kinda sweet. I'm seeing my client in a whole new light today.

Then the elder brother, Elliott Grey, turns up. There's no file on him, of course, but Welch filled me on the basic details. Runs his own construction company but, unusually, doesn't seem to give bribes to by-pass zoning laws – into all that environmental shit, solar panels and carbon-neutral homes. Likes women – lots of them.

But it's his greeting to his brother that nearly has me passing out from shock.

"Hey, little bro, you been laid yet, or are you still batting zero? You'll be 24 soon, time to break that duck. I'm sure I could find some nice college girl for you to practise on… or college boy, whatever's your thing."

_What? _

"Fuck off, Elliott," says Grey, without being particularly annoyed, just mildly irritated.

I can't help staring at my client as it becomes obvious that his family have _no fucking clue_ about his lifestyle. His own brother thinks he's a virgin_, for fuck's sake_, and from the sound of it, not entirely sure if he's straight either.

Jeez, this is taking secrecy to a whole new level. I mean, how has he managed to hide the fact that he has a _playroom_ in his apartment? I can't believe little Miss Grey hasn't been through that place like a wrecking ball through a wet paper bag. But I guess not. It's an eye-opener.

From my peripheral vision I can see that Grey is watching me but my face is still at the neutral setting: _no siree, I ain't giving nothin' away_.

He lets his own brother tease him about being gay. I don't get that _at all_. I mean, he just screwed a certain Miss Saunders for five hours straight, no pun intended, and he doesn't have one word to say to his brother who thinks he's a _virgin_.

Nope. It doesn't add up. Not to me. I mean, no-one just starts out having S&M relationships, do they? But for all I know Harvard had S&M frat clubs. Didn't he ever date? Obviously not or his family would have known he isn't gay. There's something weird here; I mean _more _weird. It's obvious he cares about his family and I can see they love him, but you couldn't say they were close – they don't know anything about him. I mean, Christ, I've known him for one fucking week and I already know him better than they do. Not that's it any of my business, except in so far as it affects how I do my job.

The other thing that surprises me is that he left the Saunders woman with the run of his apartment while he's out. For a guy who's so obsessed with privacy, for very good reasons, he didn't seem the least bit phased by that.

Once the Greys leave, I wander down through the marina looking at the sailboats and gin-palace type motor cruisers until I find a bar with a clear view of the whole quay. I read a newspaper and drink a coffee. It's not bad, but not as good as Gail's. I wonder what she's doing this weekend. I wonder if she's with her _husband_.

The thought sours my mood so I read the sports pages and wish I'd brought a book to read. I like Huxley and Burgess but when I was a kid I read all of Rider Haggard's novels. It's sort of why I joined the Marines – looking for more adventure that I could find in small town Idaho, I guess.

The happy family return a couple of hours later and Grey effortlessly arranges it so I'm not left alone with his sister. I wonder if he's going to have words for me in the car about her but he doesn't say anything. He seems preoccupied, lost in thought.

When we get back to Escala he gives me the rest of the day off. I assume he's going to his playroom but instead he heads for his office. He seems addicted to work: screwing and sailing seem to be the only ways he has to let off steam. He doesn't seem to drink much, he doesn't smoke, and I know his stance on drugs. All his employees have a one-strike-and-you're-out clause in their contracts – including me. I don't need drugs: I'm just high on life.

As I'm not needed, I decide to head out and grab a beer, catch a few games at a sports bar I spotted down the road, do normal Joe stuff, when I see the Saunders woman peeping around the door at me. I don't like the fact that she's come into the staff wing. _This is private. Fuck off!_

"Ma'am?"

"Is Ma… Mr Grey back?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's in his office."

_She already knows that – she's just walked past his fucking office!_

"Can I ask you something… about Mr Grey?"

"No, ma'am, you can't."

"Oh! I won't tell him I've spoken to you."

_This is getting annoying._ I need to cut her off.

"Ma'am, I have nothing to say to you."

Suddenly I see Grey standing in the door way. His face is pale with fury. The Saunders woman goes white when she sees him.

"Playroom," he snarls at her.

She scuttles away looking terrified. And the look on his face – it's fucking frightening, like he's hanging onto to his self-control by the merest thread. I feel bad for whatever the Saunders woman has coming but _she can always say no_.

I stare impassively at Grey waiting for him to say something to me but I can see that his fury has ebbed a notch and he turns on his heel and leaves.

I'm so fucking glad to be out of that apartment for the next few hours. When I return, the place is quiet. I check the CCTV, out of habit, and note that the Saunders woman's blue Audi has gone from the garage. Whether she left or was kicked out I don't know.

I'm woken in the small hours by the sound of the piano coming from the main room. I drift back to sleep listening to Chopin.

Sunday passes uneventfully: Grey is in a foul mood, but that's nothing new. He takes it out on his spreadsheets and some poor sap I hear him yelling at over the phone. About lunchtime some removal people arrive to empty all the clothes and personal effects from what was Miss Saunders room. And he tells me that she's no longer on his list of permitted visitors. Hasta la vista, Miss Saunders. Then the engineer arrives to fix the faulty wiring on the emergency exit, but the day drags on and on.

So I sit in my office going glassy-eyed over more Grey House personnel files when the CCTV shows me that Gail has arrived back. It irritates me that I'm so fucking happy to see her. For all I know, she's someone else who's been playing happy families this weekend. But I can't help myself: I stroll out to the foyer to meet her coming up in the elevator.

She's surprised to see me but beams this huge smile and I can't help smiling back.

"Hello, Jason! How nice of you to meet me. Did you have a good weekend?"

I know she's just being polite but her voice is so sweet and warm, it feels personal. Then I remember that she's asked me a question.

"It passed, Gail. It passed."

She smiles sympathetically. "Well, I bet you're ready for a change from cold-cuts, aren't you. How about risotto with chorizo for supper?"

"That sounds damn fine, thank you, Gail."

She smiles that beautiful smile again.

"And how is Mr Grey?"

"Preoccupied. Miss Saunders left: her clothes have been cleared out."

"Oh dear," she sighs.

And that's all she says.

Suddenly the elevator call button rings: someone's on their way up. One of Grey's family, perhaps? But I'd sure as hell better find out, so I jog back to my office and look at the CCTV. It's a blonde woman in her late thirties. I assume, from the permitted list, that it must be a Mrs Lincoln. I don't know how she fits into things, but she must be close to Grey if she's got the garage and elevator codes. Maybe another of his playroom playmates? I know he likes blondes.

I pass Gail on the way to the staff wing as I head back to meet the elevator.

"It's a Mrs Lincoln," I tell her.

Her mouth tightens slightly. "I see," she says. And I deduce from this that Gail dislikes the woman for some reason. Interesting.

I knock on Grey's office door.

"What?" he spits at me.

"Mrs Lincoln is on her way up."

"Oh for fuck's sake! What does she want? Fuck. Show her in."

He's obviously delighted to see her.

The elevator doors open and Mrs Lincoln walks out. She's stunning in a cool, clinical way. Perfect figure; perfect, coiffed, salon hair; expensive designer clothes; real diamond earrings. Her ice-blue eyes stare at me appraisingly whilst her bee-stung lips curve up in a smile. She's good at faking sincerity.

"Good evening, Mrs Lincoln. Mr Grey is in his office, ma'am."

"Oh, thank you. Taylor, I presume?"

_And she knows who I am._

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiles again but there's something unpleasantly chilly about Mrs Lincoln. Her expression is shark-like, predatory.

I overhear the exchange as she enters Grey's office.

"Good evening, Christian."

"What do you want, Elena? I'm working."

His response is churlish, almost childish.

"Just dropping in to see an old friend, Christian. Are you going to offer me a drink?"

Seems like Mrs L isn't intimidated by Grey unlike most people.

He leads her out to the main room and I head back to my office. I can hear the tone of their voices but not their words. She sounds like she's scolding him about something _and he's taking it_. I'm intrigued.

I check through the files in the cabinet as well as the electronic files that I have access to for my work. There's no personal file but a reference to a business arrangement that Grey has with Mrs Lincoln. I'm bemused to see that he has a stake in her chain of beauty salons. It just doesn't seem to fit in with his other business interests. Maybe he's the silent partner.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me of Gail's offer of food. I wander into the kitchen, lured by the delicious smells that emanate. But Gail's demeanour is stiff and she's crashing around in a very noisy, un-Gail-like way.

"I really can't stand that woman!" she hisses between clenched teeth.

"Mrs Lincoln?"

"Who else?" she snaps.

I'm taken aback. Why is she mad at me? _Fucking women!_

"Oh, sorry, Jason," she apologises immediately. "It's just she sets my teeth on edge. I know, I know. It's none of my business who Mr Grey entertains but there's something so… cold and calculating about her. And the way she watches him, pretending to be all sweetness and light, when really…"

She stops.

"Oh, just listen to me. I mustn't talk out of turn. Please forget I said anything, Jason."

"Your secrets are safe with me, Gail." _All of them, whatever they are._

She sighs. "Thank you. I really shouldn't talk about Dr Trevelyan's friend like this."

"Mrs Lincoln is a friend of Mr Grey's mother?"

"Why, yes. At least, that's how he introduced her to me. Dr Trevelyan mentioned that Mr Grey did some work around the yard for Mrs Lincoln when he was at school. A Saturday job, I presume. I think that's how they met…" She looks puzzled. "That's right, isn't it?"

"I've no idea," I say, somewhat disingenuously.

Gail frowns and I fish around for a way to change the subject.

"How was your weekend?"

"Oh, restful, thank you. More so than yours, I think!" she says smiling and arching one eyebrow.

I decide to probe a little further.

"What did you do?"

"Relaxed, read some books, went for a walk by the ocean. Nothing much."

"Sounds real nice, Gail."

She smiles at me. "Yes, it was."

_She still hasn't mentioned her husband_. Ok, time to play or pay.

"Were you walking with Mr Jones?"

She blinks up at me, her lovely blue eyes clouding over. _Oh, shit!_

"My husband passed away five years ago… I would have thought you'd seen that in my file, Jason."

"I… I haven't read your file, Gail."

"Oh." She pauses, then smiles. "I see."

I realise I'm staring at her: her smile fades slowly and her breath catches in her throat. I take a step forward and then _the fucking kitchen intercom buzzes_.

Gail blinks twice then answers:

"Yes, Mr Grey... I'll bring it through right away for you."

She smiles sweetly and busies herself over the stove, her cheeks pink. I shake my head. _What are you fucking doing, Taylor? She's staff! You're staff! Do you want to lose her her fucking job?_

I head back to my office and pull myself together. It's a golden fucking rule: never, ever screw your workmates. Of course, that wasn't a problem when I was in the Marines. _Perhaps you should join a fucking monastery, then, Taylor!_

To clear my mind, I think about what Gail told me about Mrs Lincoln and what I've read in her file: she's a family friend; she's in business with Grey; she's not intimidated by him; the way she scolds him; she has his private access code; she's cold and authoritative; he worked for her when he was an adolescent; she's one scary mother-fucker… and suddenly I get it – the whole S&M thing, the reason Grey has apparently never had a date, the reason his family know nothing about his twisted lifestyle. It all adds up to one thing: Mrs Elena Lincoln.

_Fuck!_

**Thanks so much for all your brilliant comments. Yes, you definitely get a vote in what I write next!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Oh, Taylor! I'm going to ride you until you pop like warm champagne!"

I look up into Gail's warm, blue eyes, my hands reaching up to touch her full, round, beautiful breasts.

We move together like we were made for each other and I know I'm close, so close...

"Oh god!"

A persistent ringing noise intrudes on the moment.

_What the fuck? My fucking alarm has gone off_.

And I wake up. Alone. And… oh _what? _Sticky. A fucking wet dream? I don't believe this! What am I, 14 for fuck's sake?

I fight my way out of the knotted sheets and sit on the edge of the bed, calming my wild thoughts and ragged breathing.

Just a dream. But a damn fine dream. Jeez. I haven't had a dream like that since… I've _never_ had a dream like that. I blame Grey and all the kinky shit that goes down, no pun intended, in this fucking apartment.

I stagger to my feet and into the shower, washing away the dream, the stickiness, the nascent confusion. _This is not me. This is not how I behave. I am not so fucking stupid as to screw the staff. I will not lose Gail her job_. No matter how much I might want her. _Stop this now, Taylor. Get a fucking grip_.

I trail back into my room feeling slightly depressed. The bed is a mess and, oh god, just a fucking mess.

I dress quickly in my sweats and running shoes, then pull the sheets off and bundle them up to take to the utility room.

_Shit! Gail!_

"Oh, good morning, Jason. Did you sleep well?"

_Yeah, too fucking well_.

"Fine, thank you, Gail."

"You really don't have to do that, you know," she says, pointing to the sheets. "Let me take those from you."

_Shit! No!_

"No, that's fine, I can manage," I say slightly too emphatically.

Her face falls. "Really, it's no trouble. It's nice to have someone to look after as well as Mr Grey."

I don't know what to say to that. Nobody has looked after me since… well, my mom, I guess. The Bitch certainly didn't. But maybe I'm not being fair – we were both so young and I was away saving the world on behalf of the US Marines. I realise I haven't replied to Gail and she's still watching me looking slightly hurt.

"Old habits, Gail," I mutter, slinging the sheets into the washing machine and slamming the door.

She smiles at me. "I understand. But, please, let me do that in future. You have enough on your plate with Mr Grey."

Her gentle reminder makes me look at my watch. _Shit! 5.59am – and the bastard doesn't do waiting._

"Thanks, Gail!" I call over my shoulder as I jog out to the main room.

I hear her laughing voice behind me. "You're welcome!"

Grey is leaving his bedroom when I reach the foyer. Just made it. He gives me a curious look.

"Everything ok, Taylor?" Shit, the guy really doesn't miss anything.

"Yes, sir."

He nods, looking distracted. We ride the elevator to the ground floor in our usual silence. Then he says,

"I've changed the schedule for this morning. I'll be seeing Dr Flynn at 8.30am. His address details are on your desk."

"Yes, sir."

I wonder if he's ill. He looks ok, maybe just a bit more distracted than usual.

He powers along at his usual rate for six miles, ignoring the glances he gets from other joggers, especially those of the female persuasion. I suspect he knows he's a good looking bastard but he doesn't give a shit. I've certainly never seen him use the fact of this advantage on anyone – not even gorgeous Gail. _And he'd better not start_.

At 8.15am we're in the car and off to see the doc. I'm taken aback when I realise that Dr Flynn isn't a physician but a shrink. I don't know what to make of this: it can only mean that Grey knows he has problems and is trying to deal with them. And for a moment I try to imagine what it must be like to have untold wealth, and responsibility for over 30,000 employees at the age of 23, to have a nightmarish start in life, and to have the claws of a woman like Mrs L digging into your sorry carcass. But my imagination isn't that good: _I have no fucking idea what all that shit must feel like._

So I just wait, thank Christ that I'm an ordinary Joe, and go over the rest of his schedule for the week. I'd really like to get an afternoon off so I can go and check out these kindergartens for Sophie and spend some quality time with my number one gal. I'll wait and see what sort of mood he's in when the head shrinker has finished with him.

He's in there for an hour and a half but he seems calm when he comes out. So on the way to the office, I risk asking.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Taylor?"

"I was wondering if I could take the afternoon off. I'd be back by 7pm to drive you to the fundraiser at the Fairmont."

He frowns. Oh well, it was worth asking.

"Fucking fundraiser. Yes, of course, Taylor. Take the Audi, if you like. Ask Mrs Jones to send my tux to the office and I'll go straight from there."

"Thank you, sir."

Once again the bastard has me on the back foot: _Take the Audi._

I fucking love driving this car. It's high up so there's good all round vision and it's got every safety feature under the sun. But best of all, the bespoke sound system that Grey's had put in is fantastic. It's like having the musicians in the car with you.

I flick through his CDs: it's an eclectic mix including all the Rat Pack, Alicia Keys, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Springsteen, Puccini, Chopin, and some early medieval music that I've never heard of. I put on _Californication_ and turn it up LOUD.

I've texted the Bitch to let her know I'm coming. We try to keep communication to the minimum. But first I've got to check out these schools. I have no idea what I'm looking for; I'm just gonna trust my instincts when I get there. And I'm really looking forward to doing this dad shit.

The first school is fucking awful: full of tiny kids who should be getting dirty and eating worms but instead wearing uniforms and sitting in rows, rote-learning the state capitals. They're _three_, for fuck's sake. The Principal is a real tight-ass, too, so I give him my best thousand yard stare until the prick is fucking quaking in his slip-on shoes.

The next two are much more to my taste: easy going, friendly, with happy-looking kids and great facilities. The last one perhaps has the edge as they seem to do lots of day camps and outdoors stuff. Not sure how Princess Sophie will feel about all that, but it sure appeals to her old man. Still, I can always play nice and let the Bitch decide. It'll go easier if she gets some choice in the matter. I'll just tell her that the new boss will pay for one or the other.

When Sophie sees me she half stumbles, half waddles up the drive yelling, "Daddy! Daddy!"

It's a bittersweet moment, seeing my gorgeous girl and also knowing that I'm just a peripheral part of my daughter's life.

I kneel down and she throws her chubby arms around my neck and I bury my face in her soft, curly hair. I can't get enough of that amazing baby scent.

"Hey, baby girl! I think you grew again. Got a kiss for your daddy?"

She plants a loud, wet kiss on my cheek then wrinkles her button nose.

"Ugh! Prickles, daddy!" and she rubs one finger cautiously over the faint stubble that's grown since this morning.

I look up and the Bitch is watching me.

"Jason."

"Lucy. How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"Good."

She sighs. "Still the great conversationalist, Jason."

I scowl, but bite back the hundred come-backs that spring to mind: not in front of Sophie.

I tell her about the schools I've seen. Naturally she's pissed that her choice is restricted to just these two.

"And what if I want to decide a completely different school is the best place to send my daughter?"

Sophie is playing in the backyard – some complicated game with a set of plastic ponies.

"Our daughter. And you can choose – either of those two schools; whichever you prefer."

"What if I don't like either of them?"

"It's not about what you like, it's what's about best for Sophie – and those are the best."

"Says who?"

"Look, Lucy. They're good schools. Just go and have a look."

"You're trying to bully me into doing what you want, as always, Jason."

"For fuck's sake, Lucy, will you just go and fucking look at them!"

"Don't swear at me, Jason. We're not married now."

_Thank fuck_.

"They seem like great schools. Just go and look." I decide to try a more conciliatory tone: "Please."

There's a pause.

"How's your new job?" she says at last.

"Fine. How's your mother?"

"Fine."

"Good."

Silence.

"Do we have anything else to say to each other?"

"No."

"Good."

I walk into the garden and kiss my princess. She's in the middle of her game so she waves me away imperiously. She's so like her mother. But I fucking love her anyway.

The fundraiser at the Fairmont is so fucking tedious I'm in danger of falling asleep with my eyes open. I mean, the job I do, I've been to a lot of these high-faluting, dull-as-ditchwater speaker marathons: lots of rich folk, flashing their cash. All worthy causes, but all so fucking tedious. From what Andrea tells me, Grey attends two or three of these things a month. I don't know how Grey stands it. I don't know how _I'll_ stand it.

There are about 250 guests in total and about half a dozen have security. Like me, they hover at the back, eyes flicking about the room for anything out of the ordinary that could signal danger. I recognise one of them: James Rayment, English guy, ex-SAS, hard as fucking nails. He nods at me and I nod back. We don't speak.

I'm starting to be able to read Grey's body language and I can tell he's bored witless. He hides it well but I can see that he's holding his body rigid and then every few minutes he forgets and starts fidgeting; then he realises, and his spine stiffens, trying to hold it all together. I reckon the present speaker has about three minutes before Grey is out of there.

I start counting. At three minutes and 45 seconds Grey looks over at me and gives a subtle nod. _Yeah, I'm good_.

He slides away from the table, whispers something to the bald guy on his left and strides away from the table. The speaker falters in her delivery as her eyes follow him from the podium, but Grey is a man on a mission: he wants out of there.

I'm about to join him at the exit when Rayment tilts his head, sending me a subtle message. He taps his earpiece gently and softly lays three fingers on the sleeve of his jacket. I frown and nod back. He raises one eyebrow as if asking me a question, and looks towards the exit. He's asking me if I need assistance. Probably not: I give a small shake of my head and he indicates that he understands. But now I'm on the alert.

Rayment has told me that there are civvys outside, unarmed, but out for some mayhem. This is probably the low level situation that Welch warned me about when I took this job. Rayment's also offering back up and he's let me know that he has eyes and ears outside this room, so I'm cool that whatever is coming our way is under control, as much as it can be.

Grey is about to exit the room but he glances over to me. I narrow my eyes slightly and shake my head. He looks pissed but he waits for me to reach him.

"What is it, Taylor?"

"Three men in the foyer: possible interception in mind. We should leave via the fire exit, sir."

Grey glances over to the nearest fire exit: but one of the guests has sprawled out asleep in his chair. If we go that way, we'll have to wake him up.

Grey shakes his head and starts to open the main door.

"If I could go first, sir."

He frowns but allows me to exit in front of him. I see them straight away and I'm surprised that hotel security hasn't already moved them on – useless fucking amateurs.

Two are sitting pretending to read newspapers and the third one is leaning against a pillar, trying – and failing – to look nonchalant.

Casually I check my weapon. I don't want to pull it unnecessarily: Grey has made his feelings on guns abundantly clear, but if it means doing my job, I don't give a flying fuck what he thinks – and he knows that.

I don't have to tell Grey which men are of concern: he can read the situation as well as I can. But then two more men enter the foyer and the odds aren't as favorable. I glance at Grey: he's not going to panic, in fact he looks like he's enjoying himself. _Shit!_ I really hope he isn't going to start anything.

When they see Grey, four of the men start chanting.

"Bigger cages! Longer chains!"

"Eat the rich!"

"Power to the people!"

"A spectre is haunting the world!"

Grey rolls his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake, could they be any less original?"

I'm amused: four men are yelling in his face and he's irritated by their lack of originality. Does _anything_ phase this guy? I note that a reporter camped out in the foyer has woken up and is snapping photos. I'll deal with him later.

The hotel security are moving at a sluggish pace, converging on the four chanting men. The parking valet is standing open-mouthed with his finger up his ass instead of fetching our car: fucking idiot.

The fifth man, the size of a linebacker, has my antenna twitching: he's clearly the one in charge. He's got something concealed in his hand and it could be a weapon.

But one of the fucking hotel security barges between me and Grey and I see the fifth man make his move.

I shove the guard out of my way as the fifth man raise his hand.

"Christian!" I yell at the top of my voice as I hurdle the falling guard.

Grey swivels, sees the danger, drops to his hands and one knee, the other leg lashing round behind him and sweeping the legs out from under his attacker. The man falls heavily, dropping his weapon. Grey kicks it away, rolls the man onto his front and pulls his gun hand behind his back, using his foot to lever the man's arm into a brutal arm lock, still keeping his own hands free. He flicks his eyes around, looking for danger, but the hotel security have contained the other four men.

From the corner of my eye I see Rayment and two other pros exiting the auditorium, guns drawn.

Grey lets one of the other security guards pull up the man on the floor, who's swearing green and blue. I retrieve the fallen weapon: a can of red paint.

Rayment strolls on over to me.

"Alright, mate?"

"Yeah, thanks for the heads up, Rayment."

"Your quaffer?"

Fucking limeys. I never have any idea what they're talking about.

"Your guvnor? Eyebrows he sorted that gobshite. Fat knacker!"

I shake my head and see that Rayment is smiling. I look at Grey, wondering if I still have a job – I shouldn't have let the hotel security get between us. He's glaring at the photographer who's just scored the pictures of a life time: Christian Grey manhandling an anti-capitalist protestor in one of Seattle's top hotels.

I walk towards the photographer and he's snapping pictures the whole time, backing away from me.

"You can't touch me! I'm just doing my job, man!"

I ignore him. He's doing his job? _Yeah, well, I'm fucking doing mine!_

I pull the camera out of his hands and scroll through all the photos he's taken. The guy's pretty good: he's caught the whole thing, including the look of fierce enjoyment on Grey's face as he floors the fucker. I delete every image and, just for good measures, take out the memory card, bend it between my fingers, then give it back to him, completely mangled. He knows he's just lost the best part of twenty grand by losing those pictures.

He starts bleating about the First Amendment and Freedom of the Press but I don't give a shit. I'm in a filthy fucking temper.

Grey, on the other hand, looks like he's enjoying himself.

"I'll get the car, sir," I say, throwing an evil look at the parking valet who's still acting like a waxwork.

"Ok, Taylor," Grey says affably.

The hotel manager comes running up. The fat bastard is pale, his eyes wide with apprehension: it'll be his job if Christian Grey makes a complaint.

"I'm so sorry, Mr Grey. We never… I can't believe… I'll be speaking to our security… such a shock… not at the Fairmont, never before… my apologies, sir… I…"

Grey waves him off with an amused look on his face.

"A memorable fundraiser, Mr Dalton," he says dryly then walks away, leaving the manager tugging at his tie, his face sweaty with fear.

The valet has finally turned up with the car. He drops the keys into my hand and dodges out of the way before I can say anything to him – or worse. Wisely, he doesn't wait for a tip.

Grey slides into the car, I lock the doors and we're away, dodging the rest of the fucking photographers who are grouped outside and braying like a drove of fucking donkeys.

As we drive away, I catch his eye in the rear view mirror.

"Thank your friend for me, Taylor. Premium tickets to the next Mariner's game, maybe?"

"Thank you, sir," I mutter.

He looks amused but he doesn't speak again.

I guess it makes a change from mergers and acquisitions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Her name is Leila Williams. That's what it says on the security report Welch has sent over. She's 27, a part-time art student, working in a small art gallery in the Belltown area, five or so blocks from Pike Market Place. She's signed her NDA and the boss has an appointment to meet her at 8pm. Her photograph shows a pretty woman, with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes.

She's got some minor offenses for public intoxication and one for possession of marijuana – both while she was in her teens. Nothing since. She moved out west three years ago and has worked steadily since.

So why the fuck does she want to be Grey's submissive?

I've hired a non-descript room in an unremarkable office block for the interview. Obviously he can't meet her at his office and he won't have her at Escala until he's decided that he wants her. Hotels are out for 'reclusive bachelor' Christian Grey: not when who-knows-what paparazzi could be lurking behind the potted fucking palms, waiting for their money shot.

I've worked for a lot of rich men since I got into personal protection. Grey isn't the first one to use prostitutes and it isn't the first time I've been asked to procure them. Some of the hookers I've known, professionally, that is, have been well-educated, rational people who see it as a simple transaction based on market forces: they have something to sell; someone else is prepared to pay well for it. They've been well dressed, well washed and drive more expensive cars than I can ever hope to afford. I've seen the other side, too: dirty, unwashed, crackheads that I'd happily cross the street to avoid. You'd be amazed how many men there are whose dicks get hard just thinking about that kind of trip. Reckless endangerment doesn't even begin to cover it. A man behaves like that, I'm out of there. I can't protect a man who chases that sort of thrill. Or maybe I'm kidding myself: I can't work for a man who takes advantage of people – of women – who uses and tosses them away.

Perhaps it's a small distinction: but I have my limits.

The whole Dom/submissive thing is not something I get. I didn't even know there was a distinction between that and S&M until I started working for Grey. Live and learn.

Not that we've spoken about it. I don't go up to my boss and say, "Hi, sir! How's it hanging? So about that ho you're planning on banging: how's that work?"

No, I listen, I pay attention, and I do my fucking homework.

It turns out that Grey has been having these… relationships ever since. He keeps files in a locked drawer in his desk. I've seen the files. The Williams woman is file number 12. And you know what? _All the other submissives had long, brown hair, too_. Which is a relief. And now I get why Gail, Andrea, and all the other women close to Grey in a professional way are blonde – so he's not attracted to them. _Thank fuck._ Beating the shit out of your boss for looking too hard at your woman is not a great career move. Or the woman who might be your woman. My woman.

I've worked for Grey for two months now and I've got fucking nowhere with Gail. She's friendly, we talk, we have a laugh together… and that's it. I've checked my contract with Grey again and there's nothing in there about relations with other members of staff, but I'm still not sure if he wouldn't fire my ass if something happened between me and Gail. I don't care about that so much, but if I got Gail fired… well, I'd feel fucking awful.

So on a Wednesday evening in June, a couple of weeks before the boss's 24th birthday, I'm driving him to his appointment.

Do I approve? I don't need to: this is my job. But I have to say it sits awkwardly with me because I know what he wants to do with this woman – or rather _to _this woman. If he just wanted to fuck her bandy-legged, I guess I could accept that. After all, it's consensual. I'm not sure where he'd stand legally, whether it would class as prostitution – excuse me while I look for my fucking law degree – but the fact is, apart from the fucking, I know he wants to beat the crap out of her. I mean, I've seen the shit he's got in his so-called playroom: belts, canes, whips, chains, handcuffs and stuff I don't even want to think about. _Ok, I get the handcuffs_, but why would a man want to hurt a woman like that? Why does Grey want to?

He's a fucking control freak at work but thanks to him a lot of people get to pay their mortgages every month. To people who work hard and deliver, he's generous to a fault. And I know he's sincere about his feed-the-world project at WSUV. Plus, he's paid for Sophie to go to a great pre-school; even her bitch of a mother has had to admit it's shit hot.

The truth is Grey's a fuck-up but at least he knows it. Some bad shit happened to him when he was a kid and I've noticed that he doesn't let anyone touch him, not even his family. They don't hug him, they don't pat him on the back. Well, Mia tends to tackle him like a line-backer but I've noticed even she is careful how she does it, only ever touching his arms. The exception to the rule is the Lincoln woman. Whatever their history is, I'd bet my bottom dollar that she's part of the fucked-upedness. No doubt she got him into this whole weird BDSM scene.

I do a quick re-con of the office then escort him in. The only people around at that time are the night security guy who passes us in without blinking, and a Hispanic-looking cleaner, who's wearing headphones while he polishes the floors.

When the Williams woman arrives she looks nervous and younger than her photograph. She's quite a looker, although a bit on the skinny side for my taste. I prefer a woman with curves like… _mind on the job, Taylor!_

I take her up to the rented office and wait outside. I can't help wondering what sort of questions Grey is going to ask her. Some weird fucking job description where the boss asks the staff if they take it up the ass. Most bosses don't bother to ask.

Forty minutes later she walks out looking pretty pleased with herself so I guess it's a done deal. In the car on the way back to Escala Grey tells me to order a brand new Audi A3 in blue, insured in her name and delivered to her apartment in the Broadview neighbourhood. No wonder she was looking so fucking pleased with herself. I hope she feels the same when he's beating seven shades of shit out of her.

Reading up on the internet tells me that some women like that shit. I don't get that _at all_. There are even places, nightclubs, in Seattle where women pay men to beat them and fuck them. Maybe I'm in the wrong job. I suspect the boss used to go to places like that, but that would be way too risky now for the mega famous, mega control freak that he is now.

Grey heads straight to his study when we get in. I head straight to the staff kitchen for my fix of Gail.

She smiles when she sees me and it's like suddenly seeing the sun on a grey, Seattle morning. I can't help grinning back.

"Hello, Jason. How was your day?"

"Fair to middling dull. Yours?"

She laughs. "Well, perhaps I can cheer you up with linguini alla puttanesca."

"Sounds good, Gail. But everything you cook is damn fine."

"Flattery, Jason!" She passes me a glass and a bottle of beer. "Although I don't think flattery is in your job description."

I sigh, thinking of some of the weird shit that _is_ in my job description.

"What's the matter?"

I debate whether I should mention the Williams woman, but I figure she'll know one way or another, and sooner rather than later.

"The boss has hooked up with another of his women – a new… submissive."

"Oh."

Her face falls. I can tell she feels the same way about it that I do. Then she sighs. "Oh well, I suppose it was bound to happen. But I don't understand it: why a nice, young man like Mr Grey feels the need to… well, you know. He's got such a good heart – I just don't understand where this… this _darkness_ comes from."

I think I've got a better hook on the situation than Gail, but it doesn't mean I understand it.

"Gail, can I ask you something?"

She looks up at me expectantly, her wide blue eyes curious.

"Of course, Jason. Anything, you know that."

"Well, I was wondering, what did the boss say to you about… about these women and… about his, er, playroom?"

For the briefest of moments I think I see disappointment flicker across her face, but it's gone so quickly I can't be sure.

"Well, when I came for the job, I signed my NDA, of course."

_Of course_.

"And we had a normal sort of interview. He asked me about other places that I'd worked, why I'd left my last job and so on. I thought he was a very pleasant young man, very serious, a little earnest. He explained that he lived here alone but he was planning on hiring additional staff for his personal security… but that was all. He had no family living with him: no wife or children. I knew the job required me to live in during the week and that he might need me occasionally at weekends, to be agreed in advance. I'd run the house: organising the shopping, cooking, most of the cleaning, and organise any household maintenance. You know, the usual."

She pauses.

"I admit I was a little nervous about working for such a young man. I wasn't sure if he would… try anything. Especially as I would be living alone with him for several months to begin with. But then he said that he had a female guest who came every weekend. I was relieved because, of course, I thought he meant a girlfriend."

She sighs. "Oh dear, then he said, and I'll never forget this, 'My weekend guest is an employee – a special employee. Miss Saunders doesn't mix with either my family or my business acquaintance.' I was surprised but not as shocked as you might think: one sees a lot of… eccentricities as a housekeeper – as I'm sure you have, Jason."

I nod. _Too fucking true_.

"Then Mr Grey suggested that I look around the apartment so _I knew what I was getting myself into_. Those were his words. I was delighted: the place was modern and light and airy; both the staff kitchen and Mr Grey's kitchen were well equipped and just a dream to work in. And then… and then I walked into his playroom."

She shakes her head in disbelief at the memory. "I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. My immediate reaction was that I couldn't possibly work for him. And so I went back to his study and told him I couldn't take the job. He didn't look surprised he just asked if he could explain the situation in more detail. I nearly walked out but… I suppose I was curious as to what he could possibly say. He told me that the playroom was purely for the uses of himself and his weekend guest and that everything that happened in there was consensual. He said it was only ever just the two of them and that there were never, er, additional guests. He also assured me that our relationship would be purely professional. But I had my doubts. I said I'd have to think about it but really, I had no intention of taking the job. We shook hands and I left."

"What made you change your mind?" _I'm so fucking curious now!_

"I met his mother. Doctor Trevelyan happened to arrive just as I was leaving. He was so _sweet_ with her. And she was so, well, loving and normal. Mr Grey introduced us and she smiled and said it would reassure her to know that someone was looking after her boy. And Mr Grey laughed and rolled his eyes at her. I went home and thought very hard. In the end I decided I'd give it a month's trial. And… well, here I am."

She smiles. And I'm amazed: she is one brave woman.

"But I'm curious, Jason. What were your first impressions?"

She's put me on the spot. I go for honesty.

"I thought he was a twisted son of a bitch."

Gail gasps then laughs. "Well, quite!"

"And if there was anything illegal or if he was into kids or… goats or anything, I was out of here."

I think I've shocked her but then she starts giggling and I can't help laughing, too.

"Goats?" she says, her eyes dancing with humour.

"Yeah!" I say, laughing, "No goats!"

"No goats!" she agrees.

I look up and I see Grey standing at the door watching us. I wonder how much he's heard, but he doesn't seem worried.

"Oh! Good evening, Mr Grey," says Gail. "I'm afraid Mr Taylor isn't too keen on my recipe for curried goat!"

I nearly choke on my beer.

Grey pulls a face. "I can't say curried goat would be an item I'd like to see on your menu, Mrs Jones."

"No, sir," she says, with a straight face. "No goats."

There's an awkward pause while I keep my eyes down, staring into my beer like it's the last water in the desert.

"The linguini alla puttanesca will be ready in five minutes, Mr Grey," she says, smiling at him gently.

"Thank you, Mrs Jones, that sounds excellent. And I'd like to go through the week's menus later."

"Certainly, sir," she says.

He wanders off and I can't help thinking how lonely it must be to hear the laughter of other people in your home but know that none of it is for you. The thought is sobering. I look up and Gail is still smiling at me, distracting me from my thoughts. I can't help smiling back.

"Jason," she says, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Gail, what is it?"

"Are you ever going to ask me out?"

**Thanks for all your great comments. There seem to be a lot of Taylor fans out there!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – 24th Birthday party**

Gail takes my breath away.

She's funny and clever and has the most fantastic ass of any woman I've ever known. And believe me, since she asked me if I was ever going to ask her out, I've made the most of her lapse in judgement.

"_Jason, can I ask you something?"_

"_Sure, Gail, what is it?"_

"_Are you ever going to ask me out?"_

I think back to that night. She didn't have to ask me twice. The only thing that had been holding me back was my concern that she could lose her job. Most employers prefer to think of their staff as celibate, inanimate household appliances. I didn't know Grey's view, but if Gail didn't care, well, I didn't need a fucking written invitation.

There she sat, looking right into me, seeing everything with those beautiful blue eyes, so warm and trusting. Her gaze was magnetic, pulling me in. My hand reached across the table and I stroked her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered and she leaned into my hand, sighing softly.

The distance across the table was too far. I stood up and walked round to her side, drawn to her.

She put her soft, cool hands in mine and I pulled her upwards.

She smiled and I felt the breath leave my body. So beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Gently, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my face towards her. Her lips touched mine and desire pulsed through me. I couldn't hold back any longer, god help me. I wanted her, every inch of her. Badly.

She pulled away from me, gasping for breath, my vehemence taking her by surprise. Then she smiled and without speaking, she took my hand and led me into her bedroom.

A thousand images collide in my memory: her skin, her scent, her softness, her warmth, the tenderness of her touch, her passion scorching through me. Over and over again our bodies meeting and combining, the loneliness erased in sweat and kisses and heat. Fucking fireworks! Nothing cool, calm and collected about a passionate woman taking what she wants.

We've slept maybe an hour when the alarm on my wristwatch goes off.

"Fuck! Fucking alarm!"

I sit up dazed and slightly disoriented. Then I see Gail smiling up at me, her blonde hair all mussed like cotton candy, a bright halo around her.

"Good morning! You're very eloquent, Jason!"

She's laughing, teasing me, and I'm so fucking happy I've got this ridiculous schoolboy grin plastered across my face.

I swoop back down to kiss her and for the briefest of moments the connection is there again. Then she puts her hand against my chest and pushes gently.

"Up!"

"I am up."

She laughs. "You have work. Go! Time for Mr Grey's morning run!"

I groan. After last night's work-out with Gail, the last thing I feel like is a six mile sprint with the boss.

She pushes me again. "I'll have breakfast waiting for you when you get back."

"God, you're a fantastic woman. Where have you been all my life?"

"Jason, you've already had me. Flattery won't get you any further."

I shrug. "Sure about that?"

She laughs again, then reaches onto the floor and throws my pants at me.

"Go! Don't forget your pants!"

"The words every man wants to hear."

But now I hustle. I scoop up the rest of my clothes and do a nude sprint across our lounge to my own room, taking a chance that Grey isn't going to come looking for me just yet. I pull on my sweats and running shoes and head out.

Grey is waiting in the foyer. He looks pissed. Guess I must be a second late. I think he's going to chew my ass out but then he raises his eyebrows and looks like he's hiding a smile. _What's his problem_?

But when I get in the elevator I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls. _I look like hell_. My buzz cut is sticking out on one side. I have no idea how that happened; because I sure didn't spend that much time sleeping on it last night, but basically I look like shit. I may as well hang a sign around my neck saying 'Well fucked'. I wonder if he's going to say something.

But nope, no comments. That changes when we get outside, instead of the usual, _the bastard goes faster than his normal pace!_ He fucking motors around one of our longer circuits and when I catch a glimpse of his face, I can see he's smirking at me. _He knows! _I don't usually have trouble keeping up with a client on a run. I'm used to fat fuckers who wheeze their way round a one kilometer track. _Grey's killing me! _And he's enjoying it. Twisted fucker.

By the time we get back Escala my legs feel like lead and my eyeballs are about ready to pop out of my head and dribble down my face. But he still hasn't said anything about Gail. _Will he? _I get the feeling he's made his point.

He heads off to shower leaving me standing in the foyer. Whatever he's going to do, I can't change what happened, and I don't want to. No way. Not for a twisted fucker like Grey.

Gail is in the kitchen. She looks damn fine in her neat uniform of white shirt and black skirt, her hair still damp.

I can't help myself. I walk up and wrap my arms around her waist while she's cooking and nuzzle her neck.

"Hi honey, I'm home," I say softly.

She laughs. "Well, go shower and I'll get you some breakfast. Now! Or I'll end up burning this."_ God, I love her ordering me about!_

By the time I climb out of the shower, the kitchen is empty. She must be serving Grey. Suddenly I'm anxious that he doesn't say something to her when I'm not there to defend her. _If he fucking starts on her, I'll fucking kill him!_

I'm half way up the corridor when Gail returns. She stares at the expression on my face.

"What's the matter, Jason? You look…"

"Did Grey say anything to you?"

"About what?" she looks genuinely puzzled but I'm relieved.

"I just… I got the impression this morning that _he knows_."

She blushes. "Oh! How?"

"I guess… I looked rougher than usual this morning," I remind her.

She smiles. "Yes, you weren't not your usual debonair self."

"Debonair? I don't think anyone has ever called me that before."

"Really? I think you look very fine in your suit. But this morning…" she laughs, "not quite as suave as usual."

"Suave and debonair? I could get used to these compliments, Mrs Jones."

"You might have to, Mr Taylor!" Then she frowns. "Mr Grey didn't say anything to me: he seemed exactly the same as usual. Oh, he did ask me to tell you that he's going to Bellevue tonight for supper with his parents."

I groan.

"Don't you like the Greys?"

"Yeah, they're fine. It's just… Mia."

She laughs. "Mr Taylor! Are you telling me that an ex-Marine with your years of experience in close protection can't handle one 18 year old girl?"

"Yeah, that's about the size of it."

"You want me to come and protect you?"

"Would you, Mrs Jones?"

"Why certainly, Mr Taylor. If you're scared."

"Fucking terrified."

The day drags. I'm not usually needed while the boss is at Grey HQ, so I head to the CCTV room and doze with my eyes open, my head propped up on my hand. The rest of the security staff leave me alone: most are ex-services, and they know the look of someone who's been awake all night. They just assume it's to do with Grey, certainly not the delectable Gail. And they aren't going to know. Some things are just private.

By 7pm most of the staff have left, just a few ass-kissers who want to impress the boss with their work ethic. _They'd have to work 24/7 to put in longer hours than him_. And there are few female employees hovering in reception hoping that he'll notice them. _Dream on, ladies, it ain't gonna happen_. Not now he's got his new sub. She'll be coming over this weekend, I guess.

The thought sours my mood. Gail will be away while the boss breaks in the new one, Leila. Maybe I'll be able to get away and see Sophie if Grey isn't planning on leaving the apartment during one of his marathon fuckeroos.

But first I've got to get through an evening at the Greys or, more specifically, spend the evening avoiding Mia Grey's attentions. I ponder the idea of camouflage but figure the boss might ask questions if I turn up to drive him with boot black smeared across my face.

He's quiet on the drive over to Bellevue. Suits me, although a little conversation would help me stay awake.

I pull up at the Grey's mansion. It's beautiful and serene and again I wonder how someone so fucked up could have come out of a place like this. Maybe there are some memories that no number of happy years can entirely erase. I should know: one tour of Iraq, two in Afghan. But I wasn't a kid – and I wasn't alone.

Mrs Grey is waiting, her face lighting up when I open the boss's door and he steps out of the car.

"Happy birthday, Christian, darling!" she says, kissing him carefully on the cheek. "And congratulations on your helicopter pilot's licence."

Yeah, the boss got his licence last week. And the obscenely rich bastard has bought himself a Eurocopter equipped for night flying. Fuck. He's better resourced than my old Unit.

"Mother," he smiles briefly.

His birthday? He didn't say anything. But then again, why would he? Although some people I've worked for expect the staff to give them a fucking parade every time something happens in their insular little worlds. Not Grey.

"Taylor, you can park the car around the side. There'll be a meal for you in the kitchen…or or you may prefer to sleep in the car?"

His face is impassive but I can tell he's amused, referring, no doubt, to the pile of shit who escorted him on his run this morning. _Bastard_.

"Sir."

I get back in the car just as Mia Grey gallops into view. I catch sight of her disappointed face in the car's wing mirrors. I have a feeling I'll be seeing more of her later.

Security at the Grey mansion obviously isn't a priority. There are multiple possible entry points, not least from the waterside. If the boss is going to spend much time here, there'll need to be changes. In fact, I'm going to recommend that Welch speaks to him about upgrading security for his whole family. If someone wanted to make a quick buck, his family would be a softer target than Grey himself, living in his isolated Escala fortress.

After checking out the perimeter, I wander into the kitchen. The cook introduces herself as Nora. She's a friendly looking woman in her fifties and has produced a fine meal of poached salmon. Objectively, I'd say not quite up to Gail's standards, but pretty good.

I'm just about to head back to the car when Mia Grey dances in. Nora is serving in the dining room, and Miss Grey's eyes light up when she sees she's caught me alone.

"Hi Taylor! Christian said you'd be sleeping in the car, but here you are. Are you waiting for me?"

I need to nip this in the bud… before my nerve fails.

"Miss Grey, you're going to get me fired and I like being employed – and having all my limbs attached."

"Oh! Don't worry about Christian! You're so cute when you're serious! What's your first name? Christian won't tell me. Have you got a girlfriend? Oh, you're the strong, silent type, aren't you? I think you and Christian are well suited."

Suddenly she blushes.

"Oh! I don't mean like that! Not that there's anything wrong with that."

_Crap! What did I miss? Now she thinks I'm the boss's bum-buddy? How'd she get from flirting with me to that?_

Thankfully Nora returns before I manage to connect my brain to the parts that speak. Nora casts a stern and disapproving eye at me but smiles warmly at Miss Grey. _Fucking typical – some women always think men are the bad guys!_

I make my excuses and leave, while Mia pouts prettily. She's going to give some guy a stroke one day – and it might be me.

I manage to get an hour's shut-eye in the SUV with the seat right back before the boss leaves the house. His elder brother Elliot is with him and I can see from the way he's eyeing me, Miss Grey has apprised him of her latest theory. _For fuck's sake! Now I'm the boss's beard?_ But at least it'll keep little Miss Grey off my ass. Oh crap, unfortunate expression, given the circumstances. I just want to get the hell out of here.

We drive back to Escala in silence. I wonder whether I should wish the boss a happy birthday but I'm so fucked off with his family I can't summon up the enthusiasm. I think back to how I spent my 24th birthday: off my face with the rest of my platoon. Grey doesn't seem to have any friends. In fact, despite his vast wealth, he's not a happy guy – just fucking miserable in luxury. The only time I've seen him really smile is when he's sailing or flying. And when he's not doing that, he's working. Or fucking. The thought reminds me that Miss Leila Williams will be here at the weekend.

I drive into the garage and Grey is straight into the elevator and away. I do a quick re-con but I recognise all the vehicles: no strangers in here tonight.

It's after midnight so I assume that Gail has already gone to bed. She's left a light on in the staff kitchen for me – with a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. God, I love this woman! Under the cookies, there's a note. She's written one word: 'Tired?'

_Hell no!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – Changes**

Friday night. Gail has left for the weekend. The staff quarters are so empty without her. Shit, I miss her laugh. I wander off into the CCTV room, now my office, and await the arrival of Miss Leila Williams.

I'm curious as to how this all works – the whole submissive thing. Is it just in the playroom or is this like 24/7 roleplay? Just before 8pm the garage alert tells me that someone has keyed in Grey's entry code. I scroll the cameras and watch the blue Audi that I arranged to be delivered to Miss W park in bay 5. She looks nervous as she exits the car. Fuck! Who wouldn't be?

I knew guys in the service who were fanatical hole-chasers but I can't say paying for it ever did anything for me. I mean, you've gotta try it to know you don't like it, right? But frankly paying for a fuck? It seems kind of desperate.

On my way to meet her in the foyer I stop at Grey's office. He's staring at spreadsheets again but I can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he's fully aware of the time and what I'm about to tell him.

"Sir. Miss Williams is on her way up."

"Show her into the lounge, Taylor. I won't need you again this evening."_ I should fucking hope not._

"Sir."

When the doors open, she steps out looking anxiously around her.

"Miss Williams. This way ma'am."

"Oh, hello again. Taylor, isn't?" She smiles but looks a little worried.

"Yes, ma'am. If you'll follow me. Mr Grey asked you to wait in the lounge."

"Wow! This place is amazing."

She stares at the art on the walls and seems overwhelmed. I feel a little sorry for her. But she made her bed, so to speak.

"Oh, does he play the piano?"

I don't want to talk about the boss, so I just point to the white, leather settee and tell her to make herself comfortable. Is that possible? I feel so fucking awkward I just want out of there.

I leave her, marooned in the huge room and go back to my office. _Just cool it, Taylor. It's not like the first time you've escorted whores_.

No, it's not. I don't care about the whole fucking-for-money thing; not really. That's not what chills me. It's knowing – or, rather, guessing – what goes with it for Grey: chains, whips, canes, belts.

Despite my tiredness, I don't sleep well. About 2am I hear the playroom door slam and shortly after that, the boss starts on the piano. The music flows around the vast, soulless apartment; something unfamiliar in a minor key. It's not happy music: the boss rarely plays happy music. It's troubling and I dream uneasily for a few more hours.

When I wake, just before my alarm, there's no uncertainty: I know exactly where I am. The bed feels very empty. Not that I've slept in it the last two nights, but I feel Gail's absence all the more. It's not a good idea to feel like this. After the Bitch I told myself I wouldn't make myself so vulnerable again. I think Gail's different, but how well do I really know her. Christ, this place makes me crazy, I can't think clearly.

I arrive in the foyer at the same time as Grey. I know he can't have slept more than three or four hours but he doesn't show it, except maybe a little around the eyes. He'd have made a helluva Marine – if he wasn't so fucking crazy.

When we get back from our daily run, the new woman is in the main kitchen. I can't help noticing she's walking a little stiffly. I have to swallow back the bile that rises but when she sees the boss this huge, fucking, beaming smile crosses her face. I know he sees it but he just says,

"I'll eat breakfast in 10 minutes."

He smile flicks off like he turned the switch.

The nausea comes back and I just want out of that damn room.

Grey gives me the rest of the day off so I text the Bitch to try and arrange some time with Sophie. But apparently the princess has a play date with one of her new friends from pre-school and fathers are surplus to requirements. Next time she tells me to _give more notice_. Bitch. She knows that's impossible with my job. Not that she cares. If I hadn't pushed so hard when we broke up, I wouldn't have any kind of relationship with my daughter.

When I did my first tour in Afghan two guys in my units got Dear John letters. Un-fucking-believable. And do you know what one bitch wrote: _Things could maybe have worked out if we'd spent more time together, if you'd have been here_. What the fuck did she think he was doing? Sitting in the fucking freezing mud of an Afghan winter just for the hell of it? We passed the letter round the platoon so we could all make our feelings known about what kind of whore he'd had a lucky escape from.

The point is, you have to fight for what you want: but you've got to have weapons and you've got to have opportunity. I don't know what the boss wants to fight for: he's got every physical comfort money can buy; he's rich and successful – and he acts like he's had his heart and soul surgically removed. But then I think back to the fucking awful nightmares that wake us all on regular occasions and I know that fear is at the bottom of it all. The money doesn't chase away the horror.

What a fucked up way to live.

And for the next three and a half years I had no reason to change my opinion: until one day in early May.

The boss had been in a foul temper for weeks.

"He needs to get laid."

"Jason!"

Gail pretends to be shocked.

"It's true. His last sub didn't last beyond penalty time."

"I thought Susannah was very sweet."

I roll my eyes at Gail but I can't help smiling. "You think they're all sweet!"

She sighs and I reach up to pull her onto my knee so I can nuzzle her neck.

"Jason! I'm trying to cook here! My hands are all floury!"

She laughs and swats my hands away.

"I like you floury. It's… homely."

"Homely! Hmm, I'm not sure I like being 'homely'. And it's not what you said last night!"

"True. Last night you were hot, but right now you're _floury, _it's homely. I like it. And I still say the boss needs to get laid. He'd be a much happier guy if he was."

Gail pushes herself up, leaving white handprints on my shoulders. "Well, I think you're wrong: sex by itself doesn't make people happy."

"Oh, I don't know; I'm sure there's a reason I'm such a happy guy."

"I'm serious! These subs of his: they don't make him happy, do they? They're just a distraction – that's all."

"Maybe, but I don't think he's going to change now, Gail. We've known him nearly four years and it's just same shit, different day."

Gail frowns. She doesn't like me swearing: I try and keep it to a minimum when she's within earshot, but old habits die hard.

"That's what I mean. He won't be happy until he changes; I wish he'd realise that."

"Maybe you should be his head shrink instead of Dr Flynn. Is Dr Jones on call?"

"Very funny, Jason, you should be a comedian. Oh… I forgot – you are."

She swats me with a tea towel. I'm not taking that from any woman, so I pin her against the sink and give her a damn good kissing so she knows her place. But, as always, she's the one with the power and I'm helpless in her hands, my body pushing against her, wanting, needing her.

Eventually she pushes away from me.

"You are a bad influence, Jason Taylor!" she snorts, her rapid breathing matching mine.

"Good! And while I'm influencing you, have you thought any more about my offer?"

There's a long pause but she doesn't reply.

"Good god, woman! Are you rolling your eyes at me again?"

"Yes!" she snorts.

"Is that 'yes' you're rolling your eyes, or 'yes' you've thought about my offer, or…" and I can hardly bare to ask, "…or are you saying 'yes' you'll marry me?"

She sighs, and I know the answer is still 'no'.

"Jason, we've been through this and through this. I can't talk about this now."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm busy and because you have to get your floury ass down to the garage to drive Mr Grey to work!"

"Floury ass?"

She smirks at me. "It is now… I've told you before not to interrupt me while I'm cooking!"

I wish she'd say 'yes', but I'm not worried. We live together so she can't get that far away from me. I'll just have to wear her down with a bit of the ole Taylor charm. My cock reminds me that I like wearing Gail down. I have to rearrange myself before I make my way to the garage and have the Audi ready for the short commute to Grey House.

The boss's foul mood hasn't improved. He snarls at me when the music is too loud; he barks when his phone rings for the third time and Barney gets a tongue lashing along with one of his newer execs from the company he just bought. I don't take it personally: he can't help it and there's a big difference between him being a miserable bastard and a bad boss. Besides, he's one of the most straight up guys I've ever worked for. For the first few months I kept expecting to come across a bent business deal; a politician in his pocket; the palms that he'd greased to be as successful as he is – but that just ain't his way. He's clever, alright, and he knows how to keep in with the right people, but they've learned that if they want to do business with him, it's his way or the highway. The only exception to this is when he plays golf to give him access to the word on the fairways – the informal information a smart guy can always pick up and use to his advantage. At least that's the gist of it: it's kinda hard to work out in between all the swearing.

It's obvious that golf offers him no physical or intellectual challenge and if it weren't for his personal trainer Claude Bastille keeping him in the game, I think he'd have wrapped his clubs around the nearest convenient stop light long ago.

This morning he's got a weights and reps session, followed by kickboxing, which is really his thing. I hope that maybe Bastille's session will burn off some of the boss's bad temper. It sometimes works. Sometimes. Part of me, a bigger part than I'll admit to Gail, wishes he'd find himself another little brunette sub so the rest of us don't have to walk on fucking eggshells the whole time.

I drop him at the entrance to Grey House and park the Audi in the underground garage. Grey's execs circle like sharks to get the chance of a parking space but only a few ever get the chance of the perk. With another man I'd say he enjoyed seeing them fight amongst themselves, but that sort of bitch slapping is anathema to Grey. All he cares is that everyone works, and works hard.

When I get to my own office, next to the CCTV room, I pick up the week's schedule from the boss's PA, Andrea. Oh fuck. This won't please him: first thing this afternoon he's got to do an interview with a student from WSUV – a certain Katherine Kavanagh.

Of course, I checked her out before Grey's PR team could talk him into seeing her. She's connected to Kavanagh Media, her old man, and I suspect this is the real reason the boss has agreed to see her. He may not make use of bribes, but he's not averse to keeping a favour in his back pocket.

I flick through her details again: she's a real babe but not Grey's type, although she'd be the 'type' of just about every other man on the planet. Not me, of course, and I bet she can't cook up a storm like a certain Mrs Jones who I'm working on changing her name to Taylor. Yep: I'll wear her down – she doesn't stand a chance.

But at 1.45pm, just before Miss Kavanagh is due to interview the boss, I get an alert from Reception. It's not Kavanagh who's shown up, but some woman called Anastasia Steele. Security aren't happy and neither am I: I don't like surprises – and neither does Grey.

I check her out on the CCTV while I run a quick profile check, accessing the private data from WSUV.

_Oh shit_. She's a brunette. Very pretty, slim, with long hair – the kind the boss likes to braid for some reason I _really_ don't want to know. Not good. Not fucking good at all. But nothing on her college file gives cause for concern. She's a good student, with a 4.0 GPA and SAT scores in the 2000s. But she's not on the student paper so I don't get why she's here for this interview. On the other hand, she doesn't seem to be affiliated to any of the more extreme student groups. It's only when I check her address that I get it: she's Kavanagh's roommate. This is probably nothing more than Kavanagh being sick.

I watch her twitching in Reception. The poor kid is as nervous as fuck. She looks so awkward in her badly-fitting skirt and ugly sweater. She twists her hands in her lap then forces herself to sit still. But then she's biting her lip again and glancing at her wristwatch. She reminds me of Bambi on ice. There's something vulnerable and almost endearing about her. I hope the boss doesn't give her too hard a time: she looks like she'd break in two if the boss tosses so much as a harsh word in her direction.

I relax. This girl poses no obvious threat… except maybe to the boss's peace of mind, but that's his look out. I let Reception know they can send Miss Steele up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Portland **

The boss is in a vile temper. Again. Still. I suspect it's to do with a certain little brown-haired student from WSUV.

Andrea told me in a hushed tone that he cancelled his meeting with Barney to spend more time alone with Miss Steele, then escorted her to the elevators after the interview. She really didn't need to; I saw it all on CCTV. And I recognised the look on his face. He's interested – in a way I've never seen before. I mean, I know that look: he gets it when he's enthusiastic if someone's telling him about a new work project, or agricultural development as the WSU farming division. It's pretty rare, but I've also seen it when he's going soaring or sailing. He's excited.

And I have a bad feeling about this. If the boss is excited about a woman, it can only end one way. And Miss Anastasia Steele looks so young and shy and innocent.

He's ordered a security check from Welch and you know what, there's _nothing_ to find. She's not overdrawn at the bank; she doesn't do drugs; she doesn't seem to drink much; she hardly ever goes out; she has a part-time job in a hardware store, for fucks sake; and Welch can't find any evidence of a boyfriend. Which is strange – the girl is pretty damn cute, even in badly-fitting thrift-store clothes.

In the meantime, the boss is working out like it's the only thing stopping his brain from frying. He runs with me, trains with Claude, and works out in the basement gym.

Every night this week, he's woken up screaming – and I'm so fucking tired of that maudlin shit he plays on his piano at 4am every day. I'm thinking of buying ear plugs – except that paid security is supposed to be eyes and ears 24/7. I'm seriously thinking about looking for a new job, and I would – if it weren't for Gail.

She sees there's something up with Grey but, despite what she knows about him, she thinks he's decent. Is that the word? It's partly true, I've seen the depth of his philanthropic projects, his lack of interest in publicity, how hard he works but… and it's a big but, there's something behind his eyes: a barely contained violence. Gail has never seen him come close to losing it – I have, and Krakatowa waiting to blow has nothing on him. And then, of course, there are the subs: one after another, beaten into submission. Only Leila walked away from him.

Weirdly enough, she was the one I would have said was going to stick around. Despite his coldness and aloofness with her, I could see that he cared for her, in his own stunted way. Sometimes she even made him smile: her liveliness, her mischievous nature. Or maybe it was the fucking awful paintings she did – and he agreed to hang them on his walls, in the white box he calls a home. _I never did understand that!_ Leila pushed him further than any of the other girls: she put Beyoncé and Britney on his I-pod – _no fucking taste_ – and he even let her play it – loud! He took her clothes shopping, which he'd never done with any of the other subs. Gail was convinced they'd end up as boyfriend-girlfriend. But it ended after six months – just like they all do. At least she was smart enough to walk away before he broke her.

And now this girl, Anastasia. She's too young, too innocent – certainly not someone into his twisted lifestyle. I don't like it.

"Jason, do you really think Mr Grey would hurt this girl?"

Gail is frowning at me. I know a way to bring a smile to her face. I try to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into my lap but she laughs and steps away.

"Oh no, let's try and have a conversation that doesn't end up with me wondering where I've left my bra!"

"Those are my favourite sort of conversations, Mrs Jones."

"I've noticed, Mr Taylor. But you'll have to take a rain check: I'm cooking supper and Mr Grey will be back from the gym soon."

She frowns as she says this. _Jeez, she's actually worried about him._

"No problem. I like to watch you cook, woman."

She flicks a tea-towel at me. I manage to duck just in time.

"Good reflexes, Mr Taylor."

"I can show you some better ones."

"Jason! Do you ever stop?"

"Never, baby. Twenty-four/seven; that's what I'm paid for. But if you agreed to marry me, I'd be all yours, 24/7."

She sighs. "We've been over this. The answer is still 'no'!"

"One day you'll say 'yes', Gail."

"If I did, you'd have a heart attack!"

"Yeah, but what a way to go."

She shakes her head and sighs, an exasperated sound, but even though she's got her back to me, I know she's smiling.

Her question eats away at me: would Grey hurt the girl? Only if she agreed to his playroom rules. So, yes, I think he would hurt her, given the chance. After all, that's his only way of having a relationship with a woman. _Sick fucker. _Whether this girl would agree to it, that's something else entirely. I know that Grey is charismatic, I've seen him in action often enough; I've seen the way women respond to his looks – and I've seen him despise them for it. He's not vain, although he likes to dress well, but that's a uniform, part of the image, the Grey brand. So would a naïve, young-looking college girl from small town Washington fall for the handsome billionaire? You do the math.

If I don't like the way things go, I'll have to leave – with or without Gail. The thought makes me as sick as fuck.

So when he tells me we're flying up to Portland on Saturday I'm not entirely surprised. The boss doesn't do waiting: that he's gone five days without taking further action is the only surprise.

Oh, and then he tells me to book two rental cars. I know when I'm not wanted… and I know where he's going. To see the girl. Alone. Well, Miss Steele, you've over 21, so the choice is yours.

I book us into the Heathman suite that Andrea has arranged, then check on the details of the Farming Div. meeting he's booked for later this afternoon, the ostensible reason for this visit. Or maybe that just makes it a tax deductable business expense.

When he returns he's in a weird fucking mood: smiling to himself one minute, totally stressed the next, pacing about the suite, barking orders into his cell. It's going to be one long, fucking weekend.

Gail has gone to her sister so she's only nine miles away. I don't know if I'll get the chance to go visit; I've only met Allison twice in the last four years. She's pretty nice, older than Gail, with four grown up kids. I'm not sure she approves of me, but why would she? Divorced, a kid, no home of my own, ex-services with the temperament to match. I still don't know what Gail sees in me, but when I look into her sister's eyes, I know exactly what Allison sees – and it ain't so good.

It's early evening and Grey has been on his laptop all afternoon. I wandered out and got myself a couple of paperbacks to read to pass the time. He wants to go for a run before dinner. I don't mind; it'll make a change to pound some different streets.

We're just about to head out when his damn phone rings. Jeez, if I were him I'd sling the fucker out of the 30th story.

"Grey… Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you."

_Uh-oh. I know that smooth tone._

"I'm staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning? …I look forward to it, Miss Steele."

He looks up at me and he's got that look: you see it on wildlife shows, when the lion is about to pounce on the little baby zebra who got separated from her mom.

"Photoshoot for the WSUV student paper," he says.

_Yeah, right. No ulterior motive at all_.

The gym at the Heathman usually opens at 6am. But for _the _Christian Grey, access is no object and he's in there working out from five. Then we go for the usual six mile run, except today he wants to go further. Yeah, the guy always wants more. Sometimes I think he was born wanting more. He's got some serious energy to burn off: it would be so much easier if he found a contract sub to screw into next week. Being around him is like watching a kid take the black powder out of fireworks, just to see what happens when you light it all in one go.

At 8.45am I'm in the CCTV room with the hotel staff to watch the student journalists and Miss Steele arrive. I finally get to see Katherine Kavanagh, the one who was supposed to interview the boss last Monday. She's _hot!_ And I can see she wouldn't take any shit from Grey – which means she's not his type at all. Not like poor, sweet Miss Steele. But I reckon the boss has competition, if the looks the photographer throws her way is anything to go by. Yeah, girl, stick with him – I bet he doesn't have floggers hanging on his bedroom wall, although you never know…

At 9.30am it's show time. I follow Grey into the suite the kids have booked with the hotel. I stand in the corner, failing to blend with the wallpaper, but just as still.

"Miss Steele, we meet again."

Yeah, the boss is doing a number on the poor girl, using every trick in the book. Just an extra micro-second for the handshake, a small squeeze of her fingers, looking directly at her, holding her gaze just a little longer than is normal.

She blushes and inside I feel so bad for her. _She has no idea_.

Miss Kavanagh, however, seems slightly repelled by the boss. Her smile is polite and professional and chilly. But she's blonde, so she has nothing to worry about.

When Miss Steele introduces the photographer to Grey, you could freeze helium with his expression. If he looked at me that way, I'd be watching my back for a decade.

"Where would you like me?" says Grey. It sounds more like, _Don't fuck with my new toy_.

For the next half an hour, Miss Kavanagh points and organises, telling everyone one what to do. It's pretty fucking funny seeing the boss ordered around by a girl, especially when the assistant photographer blinds him with the portable lights. Yeah, I'm actually enjoying myself. And it occurs to me he must be really into Miss Steele to put up with this. It makes me curious: what is it about her? Grey's subs have all been attractive, so what's so special about this girl? Maybe it's the fact that she _is_ so young and innocent, I don't know. But the boss sure as fuck can't stop staring at her. She's so shy, the poor kid only catches his eye twice, and blushes each time. It makes me hopeful: hopeful that he doesn't have a chance with her after all. Surely a cute kid like that would run a mile from what Grey has to offer? Wouldn't she?

Finally the photographer says he has enough pictures. _I should fucking think so!_ I've never seen the boss sit still for so long or be so patient with a bunch of fucking amateurs.

He thanks them politely and then says, "Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?"

The poor kid looks utterly taken aback: she really doesn't get it. She hasn't worked out that we're all here for her.

"I'll call you, Taylor," says Grey. _He wants me out of here_.

But I'm half way down the corridor, happy to mind my own business when he calls me back. He wants me to drive the three other students home so he can have coffee with Miss Steele. Coffee? Is he trying to arrange an interview of his own, with her? But Miss Steele has her own ideas, I'm glad to see. I'm not needed so I leave, wondering what will happen next, hoping Miss Steele isn't dazzled into doing something she doesn't want to.

An hour later Grey returns. I've never seen him looked so… unsure of himself. Did little Miss Steele turn him down already? It looks like it. Boy, that was quicker than I'd have expected. Smart girl.

But I actually feel kind of sorry for the boss. I wasn't expecting that. He looks bewildered. He makes an appointment with Flynn for first thing Monday morning. And then, weirdly, he cancels it almost immediately.

Next thing I know, we're packing up and heading back to Seattle.

I'm really fucking curious to hear what Gail makes of it all.

"So Mr Grey took her for coffee?"

"Like I said."

"And when he came back, he was… upset?"

_Was he? Is that that way to describe him?_

"He was definitely rattled."

Gail smiles. "He likes her."

"You think?"

She rolls her eyes at me. "Jason! It's obvious. He's fallen for this girl, in a nice, normal way!"

I'm not so sure. But I don't want to argue. I just want to take her in my arms and forget all about Grey and all about his fucked up, twisted world. We're in his life, but Gail is my sanctuary, and right now, I just want to feel her soft, warm body; I want to come home.

"You look very stressed, Mr Taylor. I think I have something that could ease your tension."

"I think you could be right, Mrs Jones."

"Did I ever mention that you're a bad influence, Mr Taylor?"

"I do hope so, Mrs Jones."

And I willingly follow her into her bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

This week has been one of the longest weeks of my life, and that includes the winter tour I did in Afghan, up to my balls in mud in a shit-hole of a town called Now Zad.

The boss is in a vile mood. So what's new, these days? It's a good thing the hanging of employees has been banned, otherwise several members of staff who breathed out of turn would be dangling from the yardarm right now.

Everyone is walking on eggshells, waiting for the dams to burst and praying they're not in the firing line when it happens. Do I fucking care that I'm mixing my metaphors? Not this week. Although the boss hasn't actually fired anyone today – that I know of – it's come close.

Olivia nearly got her marching orders when she dropped a cup of coffee on the boss's Bauhaus table, her hands were shaking so much. Although with Olivia I can never tell if it's nerves around the boss or the fact that she's panting for him. Perhaps he should have chosen her as his new submissive; pity she's a blonde.

But both Olivia and the table survive, thanks to Andrea saving the day with a handful of paper towels for the table and a bottle of valium for Olivia. Damn, that woman deserves a medal, although I think this week has aged her. Maybe she needs a holiday more. Olivia spent most of that day in the ladies room crying, poor bitch.

Ros just rolls with the punches: nothing seems to phase her. She is one tough woman. And Grey is smart enough not to yell at her. She'd probably lay him out cold if he tried.

By Thursday, I'm not the only member of staff praying for the weekend. But then Lydia, the receptionist, calls me down to accept a parcel from some serious security. I run it through the X-ray machine but it's just some old books. Ok, very valuable old books, first editions I suspect. I wish Grey would tell me when he does shit like this: I nearly had a heart attack wondering if someone had sent him an incendiary device. It wouldn't be the first time. That's what his fucking security is for! Jesus wept.

At least the books seem to please him. He tells Andrea to hold all his calls and disappears into his office for the next hour. The peace is a welcome relief for _all_ his staff. It doesn't last, of course.

Next in the firing line is Sam from PR who had the bright idea of getting the boss to glad-hand the graduating students from WSUV. We'll be up there next week as the ceremony is on Thursday. I wonder if the boss is planning on stalking one particular student. The smart money says 'yes'.

I'm looking forward to the weekend like it's the last life-raft on the Titanic. I've got plans with Gail, and they won't involve going outdoors.

But it's all change and leave is cancelled. Grey is on the move. Where to? Fucking Portland! Again! You'd think that place was Vegas, Mecca and the Bahamas all rolled into one.

I call Gail, feeling homicidal.

"What's the matter, Jason?"

"Sorry, babe, the weekend is cancelled. The boss is flying up to Portland. Again. He needs clothes for the week, suits, shirts, the usual. If he survives that long," I add darkly.

"Why? Is he ill?"

"No, but I might have to kill him for spoiling our plans."

Gail laughs lightly. "I'm sure we can arrange a rain check, Jason."

"I wish he'd just get himself a nice little sub and put us all out of our misery."

"You don't mean that."

"I fucking do! Just cos he's not getting laid, no-one else is allowed to?"

"Jason!"

"Yeah, well. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too," she says softly.

"Enough to marry me when we get back?" I ask hopefully.

"No! Bye, Jason."

And I'm left holding the silent phone in my hand. I want to use it to beat the shit out of Grey and possibly even shove it where the sun don't shine. But then again, he might like that. _I really wish I hadn't had that fucking thought_.

He's flying up to Portland with his brother this evening. At least I get to have a few hours to myself when I drive up, taking the SUV with me.

I listen to some tunes and just let the world drift by. It makes a nice change. Of course, the sad truth is, I'd be bored with a regular-Joe kind of job.

By the time I arrive, Grey has checked into the Heathman, the best suite, of course. But he's organised good rooms for his brother and me, too. One thing I'll say for him, he never books me in a budget room. I need to stay close, of course, so that's one reason. But he's not a tight wad, not like some rich fuckers I've worked for.

Maybe he's feeling guilty about spoiling my weekend because he gives me the evening off. On second thought, belay that; the boss doesn't do guilt. Besides, he's having dinner and drinks with his brother; how much trouble can they get into in Portland's top hotel?

I drag my sorry ass to a sports bar a couple of blocks from the Heathman and pretend to watch a ball game while I let my beer get warm. I'm not much of a drinker these days. Apart from anything else, I'm Grey's driver, and I can't afford to jeopardize my licence. Anyway, I sort of lost the taste after six dry months in Afghan.

I chew my way through a burger that could have been used to sole the shoes of Napoleon's army on the long march out of Russia, missing Gail and her food, feeling bad-tempered and belligerent with being at Grey's beck and call. I wish he'd sort himself out a beck-and-call girl so I'd get some free weekends again.

Just before midnight I'm heading to hang up my hat when my fucking Blackberry buzzes. I know who it'll be without even looking at the caller ID.

"I've got a situation. Meet me at the back entrance of the Heathman in fifteen. Assistance with discreet entry required."

"Back entrance in fifteen," I confirm. _What the fuck?_ What has the bastard done now?

The security at this place knows me, so I'm able to clear the rear exit and have got them to turn off the CCTV cameras for five minutes. They're cool with that. And I'm not the only close protection officer who needs favors for discreet entry. We've all turned a blind-eye to the extra-curricular activities of our employers. Sometimes it really sucks.

But even I'm surprised when the boss turns up with little Miss Steele in the passenger seat of the SUV, drunk out of her sweet skull.

"It's only alcohol, no drugs involved. I don't think Miss Steele requires medical assistance, but have the details of a suitable medic on standby just in case," he says, looking more worried than his tone of voice implies.

"Yes, sir." What else can I say? I don't like it. _I just don't fucking like it_. At least he wants EMT on stand-by. That's something.

I offer to help carry her, even though she doesn't look like she'd weigh much, but he insists on carrying her himself. I get it: no-one else is allowed to touch the boss's new toy.

I take him to the service elevator, and we ride up in awkward silence. Then I check the corridor is clear before opening the door to the penthouse.

I expect him to put her on the sofa but he surprises me by carrying her into his bedroom. _Surely he's not going to try and fuck her in that state?_ But he lays her down so gently, with a look of almost fear tinged with wonder, so that I'm struck dumb. _Maybe Gail was right. Maybe he does care for her._

He dismisses me and I go back to my room, filled with misgiving. But just as I'm settling down again, that fucking Blackberry buzzes.

"Miss Steele's clothes need to go to the laundry. Get her some new ones for the morning. Something blue."

"Yes, sir."

I go back to the penthouse and pick up a pair of vomit-covered jeans and socks. _Oh, you've got to be kidding me!_ Did I mention this job sucks?

I shove the offending pile in a laundry bag and tell them I want the express service. Then I have the night manager arrange for a nearby department store to open at 7am. The name 'Grey' goes a long way, even in Portland.

Then just as I'm about to hit the sack, I get a text from the boss with Miss Steele's vital statistics and shoe size – six, if you want to know. And he cancels the morning run: he'll be in the gym; I'll be guarding Miss Steele. Oh, sleep, take me now.

At six thirty I'm heading out to do clothes shopping for Miss Steele. _I hope she fucking appreciates this_. It's easy enough picking out a blue shirt and jeans. I know the sales assistant is as curious as all get-out. She chooses a pair of black converse trainers in Miss Steele's size and then escorts me to the lingerie department. Holy hell! I had no idea! I mean, the boss usually has a personal shopper for this kind of shit. Back in Seattle it wouldn't be a problem, I'd just make a call and that would be that; but here – I'm on my own. Except for the tight-ass assistant.

I'm stunned by the range of styles, colours and …er …items. _I have no fucking clue where to start_. The sales assistant smirks when she sees the panic in my eyes.

"Perhaps I could help you with something?"

"Er… in blue," I manage to choke out.

There's some lacy stuff in midnight blue, but it looks too grown up for Miss Steele.

"Something in pale blue?"

She leads me to another part of the store. Yes, that's more like it. Baby blue will suit her. I give the assistant the size and she sorts out a set. The panties are tiny – what's the point of that? My throat closes up, trying very hard not to imagine it.

We're on our way to the sales till, when I spy some really fancy stuff in black with satin trim. Now I really _do_ want to imagine Gail in that. It's fucking expensive, but she's worth it. Just looking at it gives me a hard on. _Yeah, definitely worth it_.

"And this as well, sir?"

"Yes, but in a slightly larger size."

_Yeah, that's right sweetheart_. The look on her face is priceless. I can't resist.

"For my wife. The other is for my girlfriend."

She tries to hide her shock. You know, I'd really expected better acting in a classy joint like this.

"Of course, sir," she mutters, her face an unattractive beetroot. _Suck it up, baby_. Maybe that'll teach her to make me feel like a voyeur stalking through the women's lingerie.

I text the boss to let him know I'm outside his room. He opens the door quietly.

"I'm heading down to the gym. Keep Miss Steele under close surveillance."

"Yes, sir. Is she er… fully recovered?"

"Still sleeping like a baby." He frowns. "Get some Advil sent up with some fresh orange juice. I'm going to the gym: I'll only be gone about half an hour."

"Yes, sir. Miss Steele's clothes have gone to the laundry. I have her new clothes."

"I'll give them to her when I get back."

_Yeah, he doesn't want her leaving when he's not there_._ Why?_

When Grey goes, I can't help looking in the bedroom. I need to know Miss Steele is ok, as much as I _can_ know.

She's sleeping peacefully, her long hair fanned out behind her. She looks even younger like this – barely fucking legal. I can't help breathing a sigh of relief when I see that she's still wearing the shirt she arrived in last night. _He hasn't touched her, thank fuck_.

And then it hits me: she's spent the night in his bed, and even though I bet he didn't sleep much, he slept with her. _This is new_. I've worked for Grey for nearly four years and I've _never_ known him have a woman sleep in his bed. _Maybe this one will be different – maybe Gail was right_.

I close the door quietly and head back to the living area. She can't leave without passing me. I hope she doesn't wake up before the boss gets back – I _so_ don't want to have that conversation with her.

I'm surprised when Grey gets back from the gym so quickly; he must be really worried that she'd try to leave.

"Situation unchanged re: Miss Steele." I'm grateful and relieved when he dismisses me from babysitting duties. But not from being Grey's factotum: the Blackberry buzzes again half an hour later.

"I'm going to need Charlie Tango. From Portland at say twenty-thirty."

"And return to Boeing airfield, sir?"

"No, standby at Escala … all night."

_Why the fuck does he want that?_

"Yes, sir. Will you need Charlie Tango in the morning?"

"Yes, on call tomorrow morning. I'll pilot from Portland to Seattle. Stand-by pilot from twenty-two-thirty."

"Yes, sir."

That was weird. Why does he need a stand-by pilot _all night_?

And the gray matter that passes for my brain creeps into gear. _Because he's taking little Miss Steele to Escala. And then she'll see his playroom. And then she'll want to get the fuck out of Dodge_. He's making sure that she can get home whenever she wants. That's …decent. He's being honest with her. And he didn't fuck her last night. It's clear he's into her: more than I've seen him with any other woman, including Leila.

It's probably a wise move to have Charlie Tango on stand-by. The girl will head for the hills once she's seen the kind of relationship Grey wants with her. What sane person wouldn't?

At 7.45pm, I drive Grey to a dismal hardware store, a flea on the backside of Portland, in a dead-end industrial estate. I thank god I hated my old man so much that I joined the marines, because otherwise I could have ended up working somewhere like this.

Grey is edgy, anxious and, if I didn't know better, I'd say excited – maybe even nervous. _Nervous?_

She's hovering at the entrance to the store, peering out, looking for the car. Her pretty face lights up when she sees him. Poor kid. Poor, poor kid. The boss isn't a bad guy but this is wrong.

"I'll open the door for Miss Steele," he says quietly.

I watch them in my rear view mirror. They're beaming at each other like a couple of teenagers on a first date. It's weird to see the boss acting like this.

"Good evening, Miss Steele," he says.

She smiles and nods politely, "Mr Grey."

When she sees me watching her, she smiles shyly, "Hello, Taylor."

"Good evening, Miss Steele."

I nearly pass out when the boss holds her hand.

I try really hard not to listen to their conversation but I can't help myself. I have _never_ seen the boss hold a woman's hand – not even his sister, or his mom. _What the fuck is going on? When did the world stop turning, and why did nobody tell me?_

"How was work?" he says to her.

"Very long," she whispers back.

_Christ! _The sexual tension in the car is making me feel like a wallflower. I get the feeling that if I weren't here, Grey would leap on her there and then – or maybe the shy and not so retiring Miss Steele would make the first move. Right now, all bets are off. _For fucks sake!_

I slide further down into my seat and act deaf and dumb for the rest of the drive. I'd close my eyes, too, if it weren't for the fact I'm driving. I can't get to the helipad quickly enough.

Finally, I cut through the Saturday night traffic, and we're there. I open the door for Miss Steele and the boss slides out behind her, as if he can't bear to be more than touching distance away from her.

"Taylor," he nods at me curtly.

I nod back and get back in the SUV.

_Miss Steele – you are on your own_.

**Hey! Did ya get the homage to the FF writer christiangrey50shades and the 'Meet Fifty Shades' storyline? Gotta love that story!**


	11. Chapter 11

**For ****all**_**sunandsurf**_** publications please visit my blog**

**sunandsurf dot wordpress dot com**

**Chapter 11**

Just before midnight I cautiously step through the elevator doors into the foyer. Nope, no-one around. I really don't want to bump into the boss fucking on the floor, or anywhere else for that matter. There are some things the staff don't need to see. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have seriously considered walking up 30 stories of the fire escape just to avoid that particular scenario.

But the apartment is quiet. I'd really like to head for bed, well, Gail's bed even though I know she's not in it, but there's something I need to do first.

Out on the roof, Charlie Tango is sulking quietly, her engines stilled for now. In the small flight room, Sandy 'Bullshit' McCoy, the stand-by pilot is dozing over 'Soldier of Fortune'. Yeah, that would send me to sleep, too.

"Hey, Bull, how you doing, buddy?"

My voice makes him jump and he drops his magazine.

"Aw, shit, Taylor! What did you wake me for, man? I was dreaming about Britney Spears."

"You really need to get a life, Bull."

"Says you!"

_It's a fair point._ "Has Grey been in touch?"

"Nah. Not a sound. So what's the sit-rep? Why am I on stand-by all night?"

"Need to know, Bull."

"You're full of shit, Taylor."

_Another fair point._ "You're being well paid."

In this business we've all had mind-numbingly boring assignments. Waiting for the call that never happens has got to be one of the worst. I can sympathise with Bull but he's being appropriately reimbursed for sleeping on the job.

It would probably be ok to stand him down if little Miss Steele hasn't headed for the hills so far, but that's not my call; and the boss is paying.

"You need a coffee or food or anything, Bull?"

"Naw, I've been looked after by the housekeeper, Gail, before she left for the evening. Boy, you never said she had such a great rack. Or maybe you didn't notice, huh, Taylor! Losing your touch?"

_He'll fucking see if I'm losing my touch if he speaks about Gail like that again_.

"Woah! Just saying, just saying, no need to lose it, Taylor!"

Wisely Bull raises his hands in a gesture of peace; I hadn't realised mine were balled into fists.

"Sorry, man, I didn't know you had anything going with the lady; just saying, that's all."

"Yeah, well try engaging your brain before you open your mouth next time, or you'll be talking without your teeth."

My natural good will to all men seems to have evaporated during this brief but irritating conversation with Bull. And now I'm kind of glad he's pulled a boring all-nighter. _Serve the fucker right_.

Duty done and honor served, I head back down to the apartment.

_Oh crap! _It's not quite as quiet as it was; the unmistakable sounds of orgasmic womankind are emanating from the boss's bedroom. _Too much information!_

Even though I've never known him to take a woman into his bedroom before, I'm not _that_ fucking curious; little Miss Steele is full of surprises.

I head to the staff quarters at the double.

With the door firmly closed behind me I relax slightly. There's a note on the breakfast bar.

_Hey handsome! Chicken mayo sub in the refrigerator and a coffee éclair. And if you're not Jason Taylor, what are you doing in my kitchen?_

_Gxx_

It makes me smile but really I'm too tired to eat.

I undress quickly, throwing my clothes on the floor in a way that would make Gail frown, then I collapse into bed. The pillow on her side of the bed smells of her, so I hug it to me and hope I dream sweet dreams.

At some point in the early hours, I hear the piano. It surprises me: I thought things would be different, what with Miss Steele sleeping in the boss's bedroom. But no, some things never change.

I'm mildly surprised when I wake up. The light is brighter than expected. _Fuck! It's 8am! _I've slept right through; I must have forgotten to set the alarm. _Shit oh shit oh shit!_ I immediately check my Blackberry: I have to look twice to make sure there are no texts or missed calls from the boss. Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. That's just plain weird; I can only conclude the boss had a _very _good night.

As for me, I slept soundly, but I miss waking up to Gail's sweet face. And frankly I miss wake up sex. The bed is a lonely planet without her.

Despite my sound sleep, I feel surly. _Jeez, get a grip, Taylor – you do have a life without Gail_. Yeah, I do, I'm just not sure if it's one that's worth having. I _hate_ the weekends she's away. And I haven't seen Sophie for nearly six weeks. She'll be forgetting what her old man looks like; seven is awful grown up these days.

So I'm Johnny no-mates, rattling around in the staff quarters like a bad smell, and the boss is having his end away with a co-ed. _Yeah, yeah, and whoever said the world was a fair place, you sad fucker?_

I shower and shave and chow my way through the chicken sub that Gail left for me. It's a bit of a joke between us, you know, the whole 'sub' thing. And seeing as Gail has been good enough to leave it and isn't here to say otherwise, I have the coffee éclair, too, and three sugars in my coffee.

I dress quickly and check my piece. I know, I know, it's a Sunday, the Lord's day and there haven't been any high level threats against the boss for months, but the time you don't have your weapon, is the time you end up really needing it. It just ain't worth the risk. Then, feeling properly dressed, I call up to Sandy – I think I woke him up again because he's damn bad-tempered. Like a generous host I tell him to come and eat something in the staff kitchen before he flies Charlie Tango back to Boeing. I'm _really_ glad I ate the sub and éclair before I called him. Serve the ignorant bastard right.

I can hear someone moving in the main kitchen and seeing as the boss only knows his way to the refrigerator and microwave, I figure it must be Miss Steele.

It shocks the hell out of me when I see her because all she's wearing is one of the boss's shirts. And when I say 'all', believe me, I know what I'm talking about due to the evidence of a pair of 20:20 eyes and I'm as shocked as hell. Boy, those braids are cute. I'm glad she hasn't seen me, I'd feel like a perv.

Officially I'm still on duty but with nothing to do I sit in my office, check out the CCTV whilst surfing the internet for cool stuff for seven year olds. _Jeez! Thongs for seven year olds? You've got to be kidding me? What sort of sick, twisted fuckers are there out there?_ Ok, I work for a sick, twisted fucker but that's really not what I meant. Shouldn't a seven year old look like a seven year old and not a Vegas hooker? Maybe I'll stick to books for Princess Sophie.

I hear voices in the kitchen so I know the boss is awake. I was pretty surprised that Miss Steele was awake before him, but he's been acting so weirdly since he met her that I'm beginning to realise all bets are off. I have a feeling my routine little world of fucked up boss with playroom pals is about to change. _And maybe that's no bad thing_.

About 11.30am I'm bored witless and shitless. The boss and Miss Steele have disappeared back into his bedroom and I've had to play some music pretty loud to block out the noise: _either he's really good or she's just easily pleased, but inside I'm begging them to keep it down! Trying to work here!_

And then a car I recognise drives into the private underground garage. _Fuck-a-loolah! Dr Trevelyan – his mother!_

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

Feeling slightly nauseous at the coming confrontation, I wait by the elevator. It would almost be worth getting fired to not have to speak to the doc right now. What am I supposed to say: _Sorry, but the son you thought was gay is actually having sex in his bedroom for the first time instead of his playroom, you know, the ones with the whips and chains. Oh, and it's with a girl. Would you mind coming back later when she's finished her orgasm?_

Gail's really missing all the fun.

The doors slide open and Dr Grace Trevelyan-Grey exits the elevator with a smile.

"Hello, Taylor. How are you? How's your little girl?"

"Just fine, thank you, Mrs Grey."

She smiles and sweeps past me while I stand like a fool with a broom up my ass.

"Is my son about?"

"Er, he's still in bed, ma'am. Would you like to leave a message?"

"In bed? At this hour?"

She frowns and looks at her watch.

"Yes, ma'am, so if you'd like to leave a message with me I'll be sure he gets it and…"

"But if he's still in bed, then he must be ill. He's never in bed at this time. Christian never sleeps in!"

She starts heading for his bedroom. _Oh crap! She's about to walk in on a sight no mother should have to see. I'm pretty certain it'll be NC-17._

"Mrs Grey, please!"

She fixes me with a thousand yard stare that would terrify a platoon of marines. _I really wish Gail were here – this is definitely a woman-to-woman moment_.

"Taylor! You cannot keep me from my son."

_I am so fucked!_

"Mrs Grey, he's not alone." _And this is my last hope for keeping my job._

"What do you mean he's not alone?"

_Oh, for fucks sake! What do you think I fucking mean, woman?_

"He has someone with him."

"Oh!"

_Oh, thank fuck! She finally gets it. _

"I see. Thank you, Taylor. I think… I think I'll go and sit down for a moment, if you don't mind."

_No, I'm fucking ecstatic. By all that's holy, will you just fucking leave!_

But her voice has alerted the boss to her arrival and in double quick time he's on his way to the main room. I head back to my office and leave them to it.

Thankfully my Blackberry buzzes, distracting me from the unfolding drama that is just another day at Grey's apartment of amazement.

"Hi Taylor, it's Ros."

"Hey, Ros."

"Tell Christian to turn on his damn cell! I need to talk to him about a problem with the Darfur shipment. Why the hell isn't he answering anyway?"

"He's been busy."

"With what? Oh, never mind, need to know, I get it. Just tell him to fucking call me, will you?"

The phone goes dead. _Yeah, bye to you, too._

I can hear the murmur and tenor of their voices in the room beyond, but not the words. I'm beyond surprised when Miss Steele's soft lilt joins them. To my certain knowledge, the boss has never introduced a woman to his mother before. I bet the doc is fucking delighted to meet Miss Steele. Shocked, but delighted.

Abruptly I realise that Dr Trevelyan has finally taken the hint and is leaving. I jog out to the main room to escort her to the foyer.

"Mrs Grey?"

"Thank you, Taylor."

We walk to the elevator in silence; I'm not the chatty type. Dr G, on the other hand is stunned into conversation.

"Well, goodness, that was a surprise, Taylor. How long have Christian and Ana been seeing each other?"

"Not long, I believe, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask you things like that. It's just …the surprise. Well, good day, Taylor."

"Ma'am."

As soon as she's gone I take my chance to give the boss Ros's message.

In the main room the boss is scowling at little Miss Steele. I wonder what she's done wrong – I sure know that expression and she looks like she's about to make a run for it._ Smart girl._

"Mr Grey, there's an issue with the Darfur shipment."

He nods. "Charlie Tango back at Boeing Field?"

"Yes, sir."

I feel the girl's eyes on me. I turn to look at her, "Miss Steele."

She gives me a sweet, shy smile as I turn to leave. She really is a nice kid. I hope the boss looks after her.

Grey takes care of business while I go back to my office, leaving Miss Steele hovering uncertainly in the main room. She seems overwhelmed by her surroundings and a little scared of the boss. Poor kid. I hope she's ok.

I realise that the boss is ready to leave.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yes, sir. Which car are you taking, sir?"

"The R8."

_Lucky fucker._

"Safe trip, Mr Grey, Miss Steele."

She really is a sweet kid; I _really _hope he isn't planning on introducing her to the dubious delights of his playroom, but I guess that's too much to ask for. What is it my mom used to say: a leopard don't change his spots.

**Gail's story**

Jason is up in Portland with Mr Grey all week. The apartment is so quiet and empty without them. It makes it easy for me to do my work, but I miss them both.

I know Jason pretends not to be fond of Mr Grey, but he is, of course. And really, Mr Grey is a sweet man, easy to like and a good employer. He's thoughtful and kind, a loving son, an attentive brother, and a hard worker. I don't understand why he needs to have a playroom and why he needs to… do whatever it is that he does. I mean, it's pretty obvious; I've been cleaning the playroom for over four years now. All those whips and canes and other... accessories. I just don't understand the _why_. And some of those women, his 'submissives', they were nice girls. Well, I didn't like Melissa very much but then again she didn't last very long either. There was a time when I thought Leila might mean something more to him, but she left, just stopped coming one day, like they all do.

I know Mr Grey has a temper, Jason has mentioned it often enough, but he has never, _not once_, lost his temper with me. He's always grateful for everything I do and eats everything I put in front of him. If all employers were like that, it would be very easy to do my job.

My sister, Allison, is very curious about him, who wouldn't be? But I've signed my NDA and she understands I can't talk about my work. She's a lot more vocal about Jason, unfortunately. She hasn't used the word but I know she just thinks I'm _convenient_ for him. It's been very uncomfortable the few times we've all got together. Jason is astute enough to see what she thinks of him, so he clams up around her: not that he's the most talkative person ever. But I wish she could see him the way I do, warm and funny and loving. Allison thinks Jason is _dangerous_.

The staff kitchen looks like a bomb hit it. I sigh: Jason really isn't the tidiest person. It's a full-time job looking after him; thank goodness Mr Grey is methodical and tidy. It's a joy working for someone who's so organised; it really makes life so much easier as an employee.

I can't help smiling when I see that Jason has worked his way through half the contents of the entire refrigerator. It's a good thing he works out so much or I wouldn't like to be responsible for his waistline.

It really is a wonderful thing for a woman in her forties to make love with a man like Jason. He has a really fabulous body at a time when most of my friends are bemoaning their husband's beer bellies, double chins and, well, lack of appetite, shall I say. There isn't a spare inch of fat on Jason, that's for sure. And he's a wonderful, thoughtful lover. And talk about stamina! I certainly don't have any complaints in that department. I really am very lucky.

He's asked me to marry him again. I won't, of course. I don't think he's really serious. After all, he's seven years younger than me and he might meet a woman that he wants to have a family with; brothers and sisters for Sophie. I won't be the one to stop him from moving on when that happens.

But there's another reason; the job he does. I've lost one husband and I couldn't bear to lose a second. I know there are many other dangerous jobs out there but I hate, _hate_ that Jason wears a gun every day and works in close protection. I couldn't marry a man who wears a gun to work, I just couldn't. The idea makes me shudder.

After I've cleaned the staff kitchen I decide that today would be a good day to do laundry. That way Mr Grey will have fresh sheets to come back to and who doesn't like the smell of laundry-fresh pillowcases?

But when I pull back the covers I'm stunned. _There's… blood on the sheets!_

For a moment I'm stunned, then I remember that Jason said that Mr Grey was bringing a new girl to the apartment, but I had no idea that she'd be sleeping in his bed! I mean, I'm pleased, just a little surprised. Ok, _a lot surprised! _I've never understood why Mr Grey doesn't sleep with his lady friends. I suspect he has issues about being touched, but still. Well, it seems that this Miss Steele is different. I suppose she must have had her period.

If Mr Grey has met someone he can have a proper relationship with – oh, that would be wonderful! I'd be so pleased for him. Jason said she was a real sweet, shy, innocent girl. Just 21 years old and…

_Oh! Innocent? Oh no! How innocent?_ And at that moment I feel with some degree of certainty that I'm looking at the evidence of her lost virginity.

I pull the sheets from the bed and bundle them up quickly. I don't know what to think about this, I really don't. _It's none of your business, Gail. Pull yourself together, girl!_

Oh, Mr Grey. What have you done?

For the rest of the day I'm in a quandary; I don't know what to think and it's hard to articulate why this concerns me so much. Obviously I don't know for sure what's happened; it's just a gut instinct. This girl, so young, so shy, so innocent – these are the words that Jason has used about her twice now. Is Mr Grey really going to introduce her to… to his _vices_? I've been able to accept that his lady friends have chosen this lifestyle for whatever reasons (and I really don't want to think about what those might be too closely), but to initiate a young girl into that… no, I find that reprehensible and impossible to accept.

And yet… it really is none of my business. Miss Steele may be young and inexperienced but she's not a child and she's not stupid; she's an adult who must take responsibility for herself in life. _But what if she were my daughter? How would I feel then?_ And that's the crux of it: if I'd been blessed with a daughter, she could easily have been the same age as Miss Steele; and for all the goodness that I know is in Mr Grey's heart, I wouldn't want a child of mine initiated into his lifestyle. It's too, too dark.

I wish Jason were here. I desperately want to talk to him about it but I don't feel it's a conversation I can have over the phone. What do I do now? What _can_ I do? What _should_ I do?

The questions pursue me unrelentingly through every trivial task of my day. Finally, exhausted by my own company and contemplating a full grown migraine, I conclude one thing: I must meet Miss Steele for myself, and then I will make up my own mind. My conscience demands it… and my heart quails at the prospect of what I'll find…


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

We're back at the fucking Heathman. Again. The boss is working on his laptop, barking orders into his Blackberry every few minutes and I'm left twiddling my thumbs and wondering whether to shoot myself just to alleviate the boredom.

In war, there are always some soldiers who snap: some shoot themselves in the foot or in the hand just to get sent back from the frontline. But I suspect if I shot off a toe or two, Grey would just tell me to hop more quickly and watch where I was bleeding.

And this is all because of a certain Miss Steele. It's as if the boss can't bear to be in a different city from her. He's anxious and edgy in a way I've never seen before – it's making me nervous.

I spend most of my time in the Heathman's gym and read the daily security reports from Welch. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. _Fuck! I mustn't think like that; in this job dull is good_.

The only bright point in the day is phoning Gail.

"Hey, baby, miss me?"

"Of course, Jason. I always do. How has your day been?"

"Dull. You?"

"Oh, well, ok," her voice sounds distracted.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine; you sound… weird."

"Well, thank you, Jason! That's good to know."

"Come on, Gail, I don't mean it like that. But something's wrong; why won't you tell me what it is?"

She doesn't reply directly.

"Has Mr Grey seen Miss Steele?"

"Not today. Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered."

"Wondered what?"

"Jason, I'd rather talk to you face to face. But it's nothing to worry about, I promise."

"Now I'm really worried. Please, Gail, tell me, before I go crazy!"

She hesitates. "It's just that this girl seems… different from the others. She's much younger, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she's a student. What's this about, Gail?"

"Nothing. I'm being silly. Tell me what you did today."

I recognise that tone; whatever she isn't telling me will have to wait. But then the phone buzzes irritatingly.

"Hang on, Gail, I've got another call coming in on my cell."

I put her on hold and answer. It's the boss.

"Taylor, I'm going out."

"Do you need me to drive you, sir?"

"No."

"Could you tell me where you're going, Mr Grey?"

He pauses then reluctantly answers. "I'm going to Miss Steele's apartment; I'll be gone a couple of hours."

"Yes, sir."

The line goes dead and I return to Gail.

"Is everything ok, Jason?"

"Yeah, that was the boss; he's off to see Miss Steele."

"Oh, really?"

"Yup. Says he'll be a couple of hours."

"That's odd, isn't it, for him, I mean."

"Gail, honey, odd has been one of my favorite words since I met him."

She laughs lightly. "Very true. Phone me tomorrow?"

"Of course. Miss you, baby."

"And you, Jason."

"Enough to marry me?"

"Goodnight, Jason!"

Oh well, it was worth a try. Again.

And now I feel even more fucking irritated; Grey is seeing his little student and I'm stuck in a fucking hotel two hundred miles away from the woman of my dreams. Some guys have all the fucking luck. Looks like I'll need to spend some time in the gym again or I'll be going to bed with a serious hard-on. Talking to Gail has that effect on me.

So I'm lifting weights and running on the damn machine with a load of fat, sweaty executives and keeping an eye on the boss, too. The R8 is low-jacked so I know where it is at any given time; and right now it's outside a duplex about six miles away. I hope the boss isn't going for one of his fuck-athons because I don't fancy being on this damn machine all night, waiting for him to get back. Perhaps he'll remember that Miss Steele has got work in the morning and it wouldn't be fair to have her turn up bandy-legged.

But, shortly after 10pm, I see from the GPS on my phone that his car is heading back to the hotel. I towel off gratefully and make my way up to the top floor in time to see him enter his room, a relaxed look on his face. _Bastard_.

Tuesday is equally dull and equally long. It seems the boss has no plans to see the girl so we head out for a long run instead. It makes a change pounding the streets of Portland. Back in Seattle I think we've exhausted every possible route in every possible part of the city. At least this is new. And at least the weather is cool. I had one job in Florida where the guy I was guarding ran every day in 98% humidity. Fine for him, but I had my piece strapped to my side and had to cover up with a sweatshirt. I nearly fucking melted; it was like a summer in Afghan wearing full body armor. In short: it fucking sucked.

By Wednesday I'm so bored I'm thinking about shooting Grey myself. But then he quietly informs me that Miss Steele is having dinner with him at the Heathman and that he's booked a private dining room. Oh, and I can have the evening off. _Yeah, yeah. You fuck; I wander the streets of Portland._

Just before 7pm, I'm sitting quietly in one of the low armchairs in the foyer seating area. I'm not exactly hiding behind the potted palm but I want to see Miss Steele arrive. And I have to say she looks a knock-out, wearing a figure hugging dress and heels. Every guy in the room has their tongues hanging past their navels, but for once the boss doesn't seem to notice. He's looking at Miss Steele like she's the last oasis in the desert.

But you should see the piece of crap she drives! An ancient Beetle that is older than she is. Jeez, I had a car like that when I was her age; real heavy on the steering and brakes like rocks. The boss won't like that. I'm pretty certain he'll want her to have an Audi A3 like the others. No sweat; I'm on first name terms with the sales team at the Audi dealership. Hell, they probably keep two or three in stock just for the boss.

So I sit and read the paper, take a beer and order a club sandwich and I'm just thinking about heading to the time accelerator (and if you've ever been in the military you'll know that's what we call our bedroll when we're on a particularly boring tour), when the boss and Miss Steele head for the exit.

She looks flushed and unhappy and he looks… distracted. I guess his plans for the evening didn't pan out after all. Bet that doesn't happen too often. _Yeah, my heart is fucking breaking._ Seems like Miss Steele is more like her name suggests than I'd thought. _Interesting_. But he surprises me – and her – when he takes off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. It's an intimate gesture and I feel like a voyeur. The boss waves the valet away, opens the car door and helps her in. She whispers something to him and he shakes his head. Then he watches as she drives off in a cloud of exhaust smoke, the noise loud over the muted chat in the foyer. He stands, simply watching. His face is expressionless but I know him well enough to tell that he's upset about something. Probably the fact he's going to be spending the night alone. _And I know how lonely that feels_.

Grey spots me and walks over, running his hands through his hair.

"Taylor, Miss Steele needs a new car. An A3. In red. Tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"I have the graduation ceremony at USWV tomorrow at eleven thru one. I'll need you to drive me – the usual."

"Yes, sir."

He wanders off looking… I don't know… kinda sad.

I take the elevator to my room and even though it's late, I want to hear Gail's voice.

"Hi, baby."

"Jason! Are you ok? It's late."

"Sorry, baby. Were you sleeping?"

"No, I was just getting ready for bed though."

"Oh? What are you wearing?"

"Jason!"

"Come on, I'm curious."

"I'm wearing that lovely black underwear that you bought me from Victoria's Secret…" _I groan inwardly_. "… and I'm wearing a white blouse and my navy blue pencil skirt."

"Take off your skirt."

"Jason!"

"Do it for me, baby."

I hear the smile in her voice. "Ok, Jason. I'm unzipping my skirt. I'm sliding it down my hips. It's on the floor. Now I'm picking it up and folding it and putting it on the chair, like you're supposed to do with your clothes!"

"Oh, baby, don't ruin the moment. Undo your shirt: one button at a time."

"Here's the first button; now the second; now the third; my bra is showing through; now I'm undoing the cuffs; now I'm sliding my blouse over my shoulders. Now I'm just in my bra and panties. I'm going to tuck the phone in my panties so I can unhook my bra…"

_Oh, fucking yeah!_

Suddenly there's a thud. "Oh, sorry, Jason, I dropped the phone. Allison is on the other line; I'll have to go."

_What? No!_

"Bye, Jason!"

_Fucking Allison! I knew there was a reason I hated her sister. _And I've got a rock solid erection. Sucking in a deep breath, I head back to the gym. On second thought, I'd better take the stairs. By the time I get to the basement, I should be back to normal. _Oh, for fucks sake!_

Thursday morning I'm booted and suited and standing ready to drive the boss. I know he hates doing this publicity shit but he seems more antsy than usual. I suspect little Miss Steele might have something to do with that.

Welch has had some intel of a possible student demonstration, because of Grey's involvement with the farming division. We're used to that shit but Welch has hooked me up with the campus security even though I'm not expecting anything I can't handle.

As we approach I get confirmation that a small demonstration, some fifty students, is waiting at the VIP entrance. And the SUV is a nice car; I don't want it covered in paint again.

"Sir, there's a demo you might want to avoid; just the usual. I'm going to take you to the back entrance."

He nods without replying. _Jeez, he's really distracted. _Normally he swears blue and green when the students demonstrate against his involvement in the farming division.

I liaise with the campus security and they take us through a different entrance and around to the hall where the graduation is taking place.

The Chancellor is waiting for us, looking agitated and embarrassed; he's worried his chief benefactor is going to fuck off back to Seattle, but Grey greets him coolly, seemingly unconcerned by certain fuckwitted elements of the student body.

I recognise the delectable ice queen, Miss Kate Kavanagh eyeing the boss with dislike. _Wow, a woman who hasn't fallen for the boss's charms; that's two – my Gail being the other. _Oh, and Ros, but I'm not sure I'd count her, batting for the other team as she does.

Miss Steele's friend makes an impressive speech. Not just a pretty face then. Maybe that's why she doesn't like the boss; _she knows there's something about him_. I wonder if Miss Steele has told her about the boss's special hobbies, even if she has signed an NDA. I frown at the thought: he doesn't need that kind of trouble, if she decided to go public. I can't really imagine her doing it, but it's been one of my main worries since starting work for the boss. And really, it's only a matter of time, isn't it?

Then the boss stands up and makes his speech. Even though I've heard him make similar ones before, it still gets me. I know some of what he went through as a kid: I've seen the scars and occasionally I still hear him screaming at night. It's a fucking chilling sound.

The students respond to his carefully choreographed speech as he knew they would. There's enthusiastic applause and probably a lot of wet panties among the females, and possible some of the men. He throws a final look in the direction of Miss Steele and sits down. I know that look. _Jeez, get a room_.

When he leaves the stage he steps over to speak to Miss Kavanagh. She looks pissed about something but he's insistent. She pouts and marches off, quickly returning with Miss Steele. The boss looks really pissed about something and he surprises the hell out of the Chancellor and three Vice Chancellors when he hauls Miss Steele off into a men's locker room. _I mean, I know I said get 'get a room', but it was a fucking metaphor, for crying out loud! _Surely he's not going to lay her on the locker room floor? He's acting so weird, I wouldn't put it past him; he's never cared much about what people think of him, but _come on!_

I'm not the only one who's relieved when they both reappear a few minutes later.

Miss Steele hurries away, looking red and flustered; I'm probably the only one who can tell that the boss is less than his usual calm, collected self.

He finally prises himself away from the university boffins.

"I'm going to have a fucking drink, Taylor. I'll be about half an hour."

"Yes, sir."

I follow at a discreet distance and position myself by the entrance to the marquee. Everything looks calm, but I don't like large crowds; things can get out of hand real damn quick.

I watch with interest as the boss is swept up by Miss Kavanagh and escorted towards her friend. She's standing talking to a middle-aged man whom I recognise from the photo in her file as Miss Steele's stepfather. There's a tall blond guy with his arm around Miss Steele. _This should be interesting_.

I can recognise the look on the boss's face; he seriously wants to kick the shit out of the blond guy. Instead he shakes hands with Miss Steele's stepfather and stakes his claim on the girl. _Smooth_.

The blond guy drifts away with Miss Kavanagh and I notice the family resemblance. To my extreme fucking surprise, Grey and the Steele guy seem to be hitting it off. If I remember the file correctly, which of course I fucking do, Steele is ex-army. He's certainly not intimidated by the boss. What makes me laugh my fucking ass off is that the boss is going all out to charm the pants off Steele senior – the second person in that family, it seems. _Who'd have thought it: the boss meeting a girl's dad_. Which re-run of 'The Waltons' is this, for fucks sake?

And then a photographer sweeps in and gets a candid shot of the boss with Miss Steele. That'll be in the gossip pages tomorrow. The boss won't be pleased.

But then Miss Steele says something to him and the boss looks like he's just glimpsed heaven. He closes his eyes and when he opens them I'm surprised the whole fucking tent doesn't catch fire. It's as if it's just him and his girl, alone in the tent. I have to look away; he deserves some privacy.

The step-father returns and the boss barely seems aware of his surroundings. He takes the girl's hand and kisses it lovingly. I have _never _seen him like this. And then it hits me: _he's in love_.

_Well, fuck me sideways!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The boss is completely oblivious to everyone and everything. It's a good thing I'm on the case otherwise he'd probably drive into a tree or stroll across a freeway; I mean, the guy just _isn't there_. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's floating on a sea of happiness with this dumb-ass grin plastered across his GQ face. Fucking nauseating.

Yeah, yeah, I know: we've all been there. Too fucked up by a woman to think straight but I _never_ thought I'd see Grey going all gooey-eyed. What is it about this Steele kid? She's beautiful and all, any fool can see that, but the boss has had a lot of beautiful women throw themselves at him. Frankly, the boss has had a lot of beautiful women, period. So what's special about this one? Maybe because she doesn't throw herself at him and she doesn't say 'how high' when he yells 'jump'. Whatever.

At any rate, he's too wound up to work, so I pull on my sweats and we head off around the nearest park and put in the miles. And let's face it, being stuck in Portland, he's not the only one who's feeling sexually frustrated.

By the time we get back the red Audi A3 that I ordered has arrived. He looks at it briefly and nods. _Yeah, a brand new, 40,000 bucks worth of car, and it barely rates a second look._

All I want to do is have a beer and a burger; no more fancy hotel food. Fuck, I miss Gail's cooking. She knows how to please a man: in so many ways.

I have to take a rain-check on the beer because I'm officially still on duty and at this moment in time the boss's plans are changing from moment to moment. I doubt Miss Steele is aware of it, but she's seriously fucking up my social life.

Sure enough, just after 7.30pm, the boss phones to say I'm wanted; he's going over to her apartment. And he's carrying a bottle of chilled champagne that he's ordered from the hotel.

When we get in the little, red coupé I can see the valet smiling to himself. _Fuck! Does this look like a date?_ I have to admit that it probably does. Hell, you'd think I'd be used to this by now.

We drive the six miles in silence. The boss is no Chatty Cathy, thank fuck.

When we get to Miss Steele's apartment I hand him the car key and then phone for a cab. I have to go back and pick up the SUV; so it doesn't look like he's planning on staying the night.

I watch from across the road as she opens the door for him; her shy smile would melt the hardest heart – the boss doesn't stand a chance. Yep, they look like a couple of kids on date-night, if kids could afford top dollar champagne and a spanking new Audi A3. Did I say 'spanking'? Just a slip of the tongue, so to speak.

The cab arrives and I pick up the SUV from the Heathman. I treat myself to that burger I've been craving for – eating it outside the car, of course. I wonder idly when was the last time the boss ate a good ole American greasy, salty burger. Not since I've known him, that's for sure.

Half an hour later, I'm back outside Miss Steele's.

Aw hell; I could be sitting outside for hours. I hope he's in the mood for a quick screw, but the champagne would suggest otherwise. Do you know how fucking uncomfortable it is trying to sleep upright in a car? Even the SUV? Yeah, cue the violins.

To pass the time, I call Gail.

"Hey, baby!"

"Jason!"

And just the way she says my name…

"What are you doing, baby?"

"Not much. Just reading a book. You?"

"Lurking."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sitting outside a certain Miss Steele's apartment waiting for the boss to… well, just waiting for the boss."

There's a brief pause. "I see."

"You know, Gail, I'd say he's got it bad. You should have seen him today at her graduation ceremony: he couldn't keep his eyes off her. And every time another man went near her, I thought I was going to end up breaking up a fight. He's really into her, that's for sure. I've never seen him like this."

"Do you think… do you think this girl will be… different?" Gail uses the words tentatively, searchingly.

"Maybe. I mean, he's at her apartment now… oh, wait a minute, they're coming out… he's showing her the Audi. Wow, she looks really pissed!"

"Oh?"

"Actually she looks really fucking angry."

"Oh, Jason! You know what this means, don't you?" Gail splutters.

"She doesn't like Audis?"

"No, silly! She doesn't like expensive gifts; _she doesn't want him for his money!_ Oh, this is wonderful!"

I'm not so sure. "Don't you like expensive gifts?" I'm thinking of the Victoria's Secret underwear I bought her that I really haven't had as much fun from as I hope to.

"Jason – I love having gifts from you; you also know I don't like you wasting your money on me… you're going all moody on me, I can tell! Just stop it!"

"I like buying you presents, Gail. What's wrong with that? It's my money to waste… although I don't see it as wasting it…"

She sighs. "What are they doing now?"

"Talking. Well, she's talking; he's looking kinda whipped… er, I mean… She still looks mad. Oh, hold on, she's kissing him on the cheek."

"Oh!" Gail sighs. "That's so sweet! Oh, I like this girl, Jason. She's different. What are they doing now?"

"Er… you really want a description? He looks like he's forgotten they're outside. Good thing there are no fucking reporters about. No, wait, it's ok; he's dragging her back into the apartment. I think I could be here a while."

"I'm sorry you have to wait outside. Have you had something to eat?"

"Yeah, I grabbed a burger."

"That's not very healthy!"

I roll my eyes. "Tasted good."

"Hmm! Are you trying to make me mad?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes!"

"How mad are you, baby?"

"I'll show you when you get back."

I groan.

"Any idea when that will be?" she continues.

"Tomorrow, sometime. Will you show me how mad you are then?"

She laughs. "Goodnight, Jason!"

"Night, baby."

I lean back in the seat, a smile on my face.

A couple of hours I'm sleeping with my eyes open when I see the boss leaving the apartment. He leans down to kiss the girl and when he turns to face me he looks so fucking happy. Her expression is harder to read; she looks... well, I'm no expert, but I'd say she looks like she's going to cry. _Oh fuck. What's he done to her?_ And for a moment I feel angry but I know it's none of my business. I'm _paid_ for it to be none of my business.

He asks me to put on some music so we ride back to the Heathman listening to Satie's _Gymnopédie_. I didn't know jack-shit about classical music until I started working for Grey, but some of it's really good. I wouldn't admit that to my old platoon buddies, but I've got a bit of a thing for Puccini. Which reminds me, I have to pick up the tickets for me and Gail to go see _Madame Butterfly_. It's on at the Seattle Opera House – the boss has let us use his private box. The bastard can be generous. It wasn't like I even asked him; he came into my office one day and saw me looking at the program; next thing I know the fucking manager is _phoning me up_ to ask which night is convenient for me and for _Mrs Taylor_. I really liked the sound of that! I guess it's the boss's little joke.

He just does stuff like that – never says a word. I know he's filthy rich, so it's not the money, it's the fact that he _notices_. Part of me wonders if it's not just to keep me sweet because he doesn't want to have to go look for another sucker to live in his weird twilight world. But the side of me that's being trained by Gail thinks it because he's good. That's the word she uses about him: good.

I'm feeling considerably less charitable when my fucking Blackberry is buzzing in my ear shortly after midnight waking me from a _really_ good dream about Gail and a warehouse full of Victoria's Secret lingerie.

"Sir?"

"I'm going out, Taylor. I'll take the R8 and I'll be gone all night. Just letting you know."

_What the fuck?_

"Yes, sir. You've scheduled a breakfast meeting in the conference suite at 8am."

"Yes, thank you, Taylor," he says irritably.

_Just doing my job, boss._

The call ends and I can guess where he's going: back to Miss Steele's. _Jeez! I wish one of them would make up their minds what's going on, because it's playing havoc with my sleep patterns let alone love life._

I throw the Blackberry on top of a heap of clothes on the floor and pass out again.

At 7am there's still no sign of the boss. I've been ready, showered and shaved 45 minutes ago but he's a no-show. I check the GPS on my Blackberry; the R8 is still outside Miss Steele's. I think about calling him but figure I'd like to keep my job a bit longer. At 7.45am the suits start to arrive for the meeting. I show them into the conference room and make sure they've got coffee and Danish to keep them happy.

_Where's Grey?_

I check the GPS; he's on the move. _At last! Cutting it fine, Mr Grey_.

He strolls in five minutes late, still wearing his jeans and shirt from last night and is unshaved… with a huge fucking smile on his face.

_Miss Steele certainly seems to be having a beneficial effect on him._

The suits aren't entirely sure what to make of this. They do the smart thing and ignore it.

I've brought his laptop to the conference suite knowing that he'll need it. Then I position myself behind him so I have a clear view of the door and prepare to be bored half to death. I also happen to have a clear view of his laptop and I can tell you – he's not as entirely engrossed in NASDAQ as it appears. In fact, if I didn't know better, which I don't, I'd say he spends the entire meeting sending emails to little Miss Steele. _Mind on the job, boss!_ For fucks sake, at this rate he'll end up selling Grey Enterprises to Azerbaijan by accident.

By 9am he's bored again and winds up the meeting. Waving away the minions, he breezes off to have a shower, but not before informing me that my job description now includes selling Miss Steele's ancient Beetle. _Oh, come on!_

So at 5.45pm I knock on Miss Steele's door to collect her keys for the old metal monster.

"Miss Steele, I've come for your car."

She looks surprised and embarrassed.

"Oh, yes, of course. Come in, I'll grab the keys."

The apartment is small and bare, with packing boxes everywhere. She's moving? I guess that makes sense, now that she's graduated and all. I have a sudden epiphany: anyone want to bet me that she's _not_ moving to Seattle? _Yeah, right_.

She hands me the keys and we walk to her car. I wonder what sort of shit she keeps in her glove box. I know what Gail keeps in hers: sunglasses, spare lipstick, hairbrush and roadmap. But all Miss Steele takes out is a flashlight. I find that oddly touching and I wonder if her stepfather gave it to her. He seems like the kind of guy who'd make sure she'd have a flashlight.

She strokes the car and looks at it sadly. Yeah, I felt like that about my first car, too. Gail was right; this kid really doesn't care about Grey's money. She prefers her Beetle to the shiny red Audi. Crazy as it might sound, given all the boss's weird shit, she sees through that and likes him for himself. Maybe there is hope for them.

_Jeez! I'll be singing about fucking rainbows in a minute! Get a grip; you were a Marine!_

"How long have you worked for Mr Grey?" she says softly.

"Four years, Miss Steele."

I can tell her that much.

She gets that look, as if she wants to ask me his life story. I have to cut her off, but I can tell her the truth, too; or one version of the truth.

"He's a good man, Miss Steele."

I climb in the Beetle, wrestle the heavy steering and drive away.

The boss has told me to take the car to the nearest scrap dealer but this car is a classic. I know a guy who knows a guy and he's offered me $5,000 cash. It's a good price.

Twenty minutes later with the bills stuffed in my wallet, I'm back at the Heathman. Room service have checked us out so all I have to do is watch as the valet loads the luggage into the SUV. The boss has gone ahead in the R8.

It's nearly eleven by the time I get back to Escala. I'm hungry and tired and eager to see my girl. But first I put the five grand in an envelope and hand it to the boss.

I can see him sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, the laptop open in front of him. He's wearing his tux: _oh right, another fundraiser._

"What?" he snarls when I knock on his study door.

_His Miss Steele-high hasn't lasted: situation normal, it seems._

"The money for Miss Steele's vee-dub. The Beetle, sir. Five thousand."

He looks surprised.

"It was worth that much as scrap?"

"Not quite, sir. It's a classic. I sold it on to a collector."

"Someone paid money for that heap of shit?"

I stare back, expressionless. It's a look every recruit learns in their first week, but with Grey I can look him in the eye.

"Ok, Taylor. I won't need you again tonight."

Leaving his study, I hear his cell ring.

"Hi," he says softly.

I'm guessing by the dopey tone of his voice it's Miss Steele on the phone; she's doing a good job of taming the savage beast, by the sound of it, so I head to the staff quarters.

Gail is asleep on the couch; I guess she got tired waiting for me. God, she looks so beautiful, so peaceful. And that's what she makes me feel: peaceful deep inside. _And also fucking horny._

I lean down and stroke her cheek. "Hey, baby."

Her eyes flutter open. "Oh, Jason! You're back! Are you hungry? I've got some…"

But I don't let her finish. My mouth is on hers, learning the shape of her lips again, remembering; breathing her breath. She sighs deeply and the sound cascades through me, heating every cell of my body.

I scoop her up into my arms and she laughs.

"Jason! Can we have a conversation first?"

I don't think so: I plan doing all my talking with my body.

Kicking the bedroom door open, I throw her onto the bed. She's breathless, smiling up at me. "Talking later then?"

I throw my jacket on the floor, kick off my shoes and sink down next to her. She leans up on one elbow and pushes on my chest so I'm lying flat on the bed. Then she hitches up her skirt and throws one leg across so she's sitting on me.

"I think that tie should come off!"

With aching slowness she undoes my tie and unwinds it gently from my collar. Then she unbuttons my shirt and pulls it open. It feels so fucking good to have her hands on me; I've missed her touch.

She slides her hands across my chest, running her fingers through the hair and pulling, hard. Then she leans forward so her breasts are pushed against me and she skims her teeth up my neck. I run my hands around her waist and cup her delicious ass, pushing the skirt further up until it's bunched around her hips.

"You're wearing stockings."

"A welcome home present," she breathes into my neck.

"Can I unwrap it now?"

"Well, I'm not waiting until Christmas," she laughs gently.

She kneels up so I can pull her panties down. I grip her thighs and run my fingers up the inside of her legs, enjoying the sensation of flesh under silk. Then I roll suddenly and push her back against the quilt.

I pull her panties all the way down and toss them away. Somehow they catch on the door handle and hang there like the flag of a defeated army.

She grabs hold of my wrist and undoes first one cuff, then the other and pushes the shirt off my shoulders, running her nails down my back and all the way up again.

"Aaagh!" _Fuck! That feels good!_

She rubs her hands against my erection _hard_, making me gasp. "Fuck, Gail!"

She smiles but doesn't speak and now I want her very badly. I pull off my socks, because let's face it, what kind of low-life fucks with his socks on, and then she helps me drag off my trousers and boxers.

She pulls me towards her and runs her finger over my tip, swirling it round, pushing me down towards her.

I'm inside her with one swift, fierce movement and she cries out, her back arching off the bed. _Oh hell! I wanted to do this slowly but now I can't help myself._ I'm pounding into her and her hips rise to meet me, her nails clawing at my back, her mouth open, her eyes closed. I can feel the silk stockings as she locks her legs around my waist, grasping me tightly. I try to hold back to make it last longer but she's too soft, too sweet, too fucking _wet_, and I come quickly, my muscles rigid.

I collapse on top of her, my weight supported on my forearms and she pulls me tightly to her so I can feel the buttons of her shirt pushing into my bare chest.

I pull out of her gently and lie next to her.

"Can I take my skirt off now?" she says with a smile.

It's still bunched around her waist, her beautiful legs clad in silk. Hell, she's so fucking sexy!

"Keep it on," I mutter as I lean over to kiss her, my erection lengthening again, pushing against her hip.

"Already?" she says with a soft laugh.

"I've been away all week, Mrs Jones; that's a lot of lost time to make up for. I believe you owe me at least six more fucks."

"Are we keeping score, Mr Taylor?"

"Just keeping the staff happy, Mrs Jones."

She hits me playfully. "Well, you haven't done a bad job so far, Mr Taylor, but I'll give you your appraisal later."

"I'll take whatever you've got, baby. And we've got all night."

Then my mouth closes on hers and she bites my lip – hard.

**Gail**

I really did want to talk to Jason but we seem to have got sidetracked. That happens a lot and right now he's a man on a mission. Seeing the hot desire in his eyes just turns me on in ways I can't explain. And boy, did I mention stamina? If Jason has been away for 24 hours or more I can expect a session that is Pilates, Yoga, Zumba and good old fashioned aerobics all rolled into one.

Last weekend Allison asked me at the dinner table how I've managed to keep my figure and what I do to work out. I nearly choked on my mashed potatoes! The answer isn't one I felt I could share.

I wish she liked Jason but after four years I don't think that's going to change. She says he's dangerous: that because of his job he's addicted to danger. I really hope that's not true but sometimes, just sometimes I think she might be right.

But at this moment in time, I push away all thoughts and concentrate on my man. Ok, one more thought, I'm going to have to send this skirt for dry cleaning – again!

His mouth closes on mine and I tug his lower lip with my teeth and bite down, hard. He groans and runs his hands up my legs, over my skirt and up to my shirt. He kneels up and opens the first two buttons and runs his tongue between my cleavage, nuzzling me, and I can feel the bristles on my skin. I'm going to be red from stubble rash after all this; one more reason for my uniform of shirt and skirt!

He undoes the rest of the buttons and pulls the shirt out of my waistband. Then he tugs me into a sitting position and slides it off, the material pooling on the floor with the rest of our clothes. He sits behind me and leans against the headboard, pulling me between his legs, then he starts to give me the most delicious massage, deep into my shoulder and neck muscles. His strong, supple fingers ease away all the remaining tension of the last week, then he runs his tongue up the back of my neck and his fingers reach round and find their way into the cups of my bra. He massages my breasts and I lean back against him and rest my head on his neck.

He unhooks my bra and slips it off.

"I'm really going to have to take this skirt off, Jason; it's getting in the way."

"Ok," he agrees reluctantly, "but leave the stockings on."

What is it with men and stockings? I smile to myself, but I don't mind. I stand up and drop the _very_ wrinkled skirt to the floor. Then I look down at my man.

His skin is a light, golden brown that I know quickly darkens in the sun. He's beautifully toned with long, runners legs, muscled stomach and chest and strong arms that even Allison can't deny are really just fabulous.

His hair, as always shaved into a buzz-cut, is a pelt, a warm fur that I love to stroke and run my fingers through. His eyes are dark, often unreadable, but now warm and filled with humor and desire.

Yes, we can do the talking tomorrow, or next week or next year…


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Mia Grey is back in town. I know this because I saw the boss holding the Blackberry away from his ear when he was taking a call. I think I actually saw him wince; and I know for a fact he has a damn high pain threshold. So with Miss Grey's not-so-dulcet tones echoing through the car and probably most of Washington State, I gather that the boss has been strong-armed into picking her up from her early morning flight. Better him than me.

So Saturday morning the boss is up at butt crack of dawn and heading down to Sea-Tac to pick her up and drive out to their parents at Bellevue. He's taken the SUV on the (probably correct) assumption that she'll a helluva lot more luggage than she left with.

I'm so fucking glad he hasn't asked me to drive today: I'd rather chew off my foot and stick a fork in one eyeball than listen to his sister at top volume this time of the morning.

Even better, I get to have an unlimited sleep-in with the beautiful Mrs Jones. A rare and very welcome luxury after the last week.

I'm just thinking what a pity it is to let my usual early-morning boner go to waste when her eyes flicker open.

"Hey, blue eyes!"

She smiles up at me. "Hey, yourself." Then she feels what's pressing into her thigh. "Jason Taylor, I think you're pleased to see me!"

Yep, and that's enough conversation for now.

Hours later (hey, it's a guy thing)… some time later we're both lying on our backs. Gail is gasping for breath and I've got the biggest fucking grin on my face.

"I think I'll cancel my Pilates class," she says at last, still breathless.

"I don't know why you go to those classes when you've got me to keep you fit, baby."

She frowns. "Because I'm older than you, Jason. If I've got any hope of keeping up…"

Not that old chestnut.

"Baby, to me you're perfect."

She sighs.

_Jeez! That woman really doesn't know how to take a compliment_.

"I mean it. Why would I even look at another woman when I've got you?"

She shakes her head as if my question baffles her. But it's true: having been married to the Bitch, my ex-wife, I know what I'm talking about.

"By the way," she says, obviously changing the subject, "I wanted to ask you about Miss Steele."

"What about her?"

"Well, what's your opinion of her?"

Why women are so intrigued by other women they don't even know is a complete mystery.

"She seems ok. Nice, normal, you know. She's certainly got the boss jumping through hoops. The poor bastard doesn't know if he's coming or going."

She smiles. "That certainly makes a change."

"Yeah, it does. But seriously, he's a fucking nightmare at the moment. One minute I'm expecting violins to start playing and the next he's biting the head off on some poor sucker who breathed without permission."

"He's never shouted at me!"

"He wouldn't fucking dare!" I snarl at the fucking idea.

Gail laughs. _Yeah, yeah, she's always laughing at me_. Somehow I don't seem to mind.

"So you think he really likes this girl, this Ana?"

"Head over fucking heels, in my humble opinion, ma'am."

"Jason! You wouldn't know 'humble' if you tripped over it!"

"I can be humble."

"Oh Jason, a luau in the Antarctic is more likely."

_Whatever_.

"Do you think she loves Mr Grey?"

And that's the bit I'm not sure about. She certainly likes him a lot but sometimes there's a look in her eye that tells me she's torn up inside. Like I can't guess what makes her feel that way. "Maybe, if he'd let her," I say at last.

"Oh, dear," says Gail, and she looks really unhappy about it.

"Why, what's bothering you?"

"Well, it's just… it's really none of my business…"

"Spit it out, Gail."

"I just suspect… strongly suspect that she was… a virgin up until she met Mr Grey; up until last weekend in fact."

"How…? What…? How do you know?"

I'm stunned. Way, way past stunned. Fucking traumatized comes close.

Gail looks worried. "Three good questions, Jason."

"And the answers are?"

"I found blood… on his sheets."

"So he cut himself shaving. Big deal."

"No, you… you, man, you!"

"Lower down… on the sheets in his bed."

"Oh." _I'm getting the picture._ "It could have just been her… you know… woman's stuff…"

"You know, Jason, you're really going to have to be able to say the word 'period' at some point; you have a daughter after all."

_Really, really don't want to think about that. _

"But you're right," she continues, "I don't know. Call it… intuition."

"Well, ok, so she's a virgin… _was_ a virgin. Does it matter?"

She looks at me like I've just parachuted in from Mars.

"_Of course it matters!_ I mean, you know what he's like… what he does in the playroom!"

_Yeah, I know, and I don't like it much either_.

"Gail, she may be… inexperienced… but she's a grown woman. I think you're all born knowing how to lead a guy by his dick, because I'm telling you, she's the one who's in charge in this relationship. She phones him or emails him and drops everything and comes running. Hell, he doesn't even do that for his own family."

She looks slightly happier. _Good_. Because I'm fed up talking about the boss; it's not like we don't have our own lives to live, too. And with that thought in mind, I duck down under the sheets and show my woman a thing or two about things she doesn't necessarily need to go on missing.

Sunday morning Gail kicks me out of bed and orders me to get to work. _For fucks sake! _I've already got one boss, I don't need another. Unless, of course, she breaks down and agrees to marry me. I'm still working on that project.

But she's right because I've only shit, showered and shaved when the boss drives into the underground garage. I make sure I'm standing to attention when he exits the elevator.

"Good morning, sir."

"Taylor, I'm expecting Miss Steele at 1pm. I've given her the garage code and elevator code, but be on standby just in case she has a problem. And at 1.30pm I'm expecting Dr Greene. You can show her into Miss Steele's room."

"Sir."

I can't help wondering what the doctor is for. _I'm guessing I don't want to know_.

All morning he's as jumpy as a box of frogs; it's really fucking annoying. If he weren't my boss I'd tell him to drink decaff and take a cold shower. But at 12.59pm he picks up the Seattle Times and sits back on his mausoleum of a sectional and acts like he's totally at ease and laid back. _It's all about the illusion; never let a broad know how into them you are_. Gail is the exception to the valuable rule, the only thing my useless fucker of a father ever told me that was of any fucking use whatso-fucking-ever.

Miss Steele is on time. She drives into the garage in her tomato-red A3. She's wearing the same purple dress that she wore in the Heathman that time – the time she walked out on him. If I were him, which, thank fuck, I'm not, I'd buy her a new, damn dress. Not that she doesn't look hot, because she does. I just hope it's not an omen. I don't think I could stand the fall-out if she left him again and I really don't want to look for a new job right now.

"Good afternoon, Miss Steele."

"Oh, please call me Ana!"

I can't help smiling at her; she's such a sweet kid. "Ana. Mr Grey is expecting you." _And has expectations of you which I really hope you can live up to so I can have a quiet life and keep my job for a bit longer_.

She walks into the room hesitantly. The boss can't take his eyes off her and she's just as bad. I head back to my office and hope to hell no urgent calls come in. I _really_ don't want to interrupt whatever might be going on, down, or up. And really is toss-a-coin time whether they'll be able to wait until after the doctor has been before they're ripping each other's clothes off. _Jeez, get a room_. Oh, wait, he lives here.

Then the good doctor arrives, a blonde who's up there with Gail in the looks stakes. _What kind of doctor is she?_ Maybe she's a sex therapist. That would make a kind of warped sense.

But when I enter the main room to announce the doctor's arrival, they're already scowling at each other in a way that brings back unpleasant memories of my marriage.

"Dr Greene is here, sir."

"Show her up to Miss Steele's room."

Then I hear him whisper to her, "Ready for some contraception?"

_What a fucking control freak! I can't believe she puts up with that shit!_ And I have to wonder if my assessment of Miss Steele might have been a little hasty. To be fair, I know from what little Gail has told me that all those pills and shit aren't cheap to get. I've only ever bought rubbers so it's an area of intelligence that has completely passed me by _and I have no regrets about that!_

While Miss Steele is being _seen_ to the boss informs me that he won't need me till 7pm to drive him _and Miss Steele_ out to his parents' place for dinner.

That's shocked my fucking socks off! Dinner at his parents? Well, I guess they know he's not gay anymore. Which is a relief; I've had enough of Miss Mia Grey asking me leading questions like whether or not I like Abba and whether or not I've seen the film 'Mama Mia' – her idea of a joke. As a matter of fact I have, on one of the thankfully rare fucking weekends when I've been invited to Gail's sisters. _What the fuck was James Bond doing singing out of tune_, that's what I couldn't figure out.

But before I drive them out to Bellevue and watch his parents celebrate their son's heterosexuality, I have a shrewd idea of what they'll be doing for the intervening five hours. Poor kid: I hope she's fit.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

In the end I can't stand the silence. They disappear into the boss's playroom and I wander around the staff quarters. I don't know what I'm expecting: maybe for Miss Steele to run out screaming. In the end it's me who has to leave – the tension is more than flesh and blood can stand. I mean _my_ flesh and blood.

I wander around Denny Regrade which I guess I have to call Belltown now. That's realtors for you. It doesn't make Nitelite, the scuzzy sports bar I head, to any more upmarket or any cleaner. Gail hates me going into joints like this. For some reason she thinks I'll end up in a brawl. I'm not being arrogant, well maybe a bit, but anyone who starts a fight with me ain't going to go the distance. Anyway, I'd have to consider that getting into a fight in the first place as a failing on my part. In my job you've got to be able to tell which people are all mouth and which are the real danger. And I'm fucking good at my job.

I'd really like to just sit at the bar, watch a Mariners' game and shoot the breeze with a cold beer in my hand. But I'm on duty tonight, so I stick to coffee.

There are probably a dozen coffee bars within two clicks of a camel's fart that serve better coffee than this place. In fact the coffee is so bad I think a badger must have washed its ass in it. It's un-fucking-drinkable.

It certainly doesn't improve my mood as I wonder what it would be like to work for a regular boss and have a regular life. The truth is I know I'm not the kind of guy who'd be happy dragging his weary carcass to an office every day, nine to five. I think that's why Gail's sister Allison doesn't like me: she thinks I'm not capable of being a regular guy with a regular life and, she reasons, no good for her sister. What makes me pissed is that _she could be right._

Sometimes life with Grey gives me a fucking migraine, but it's never boring. Ok, on rare occasions it's fucking tedious, but generally I get a buzz out of it. There's nearly always some low level threat to look out for. These days Welch has got the intel so tightly sewn up, we're pretty much ahead of the game. But that doesn't mean it's time to get complacent. A guy who's a billionaire makes enemies and lots of them. But it's not just that: I mean, look at the way little Miss Steele has screwed up all our lives. Not that she means to, but she's leading the boss around by his dick and everyone who works for him have to line up and play follow-the-fucking-leader.

At least Gail will be home tonight: definitely something to look forward to.

Shortly after 6pm I head back to Escala to get the sit-rep (or _situation report _as I had to explain to Gail). I've got time for a quick shower and shave and I'm standing to attention, well, sitting on my ass in an office easy-chair, checking out the CCTV from the last couple of hours. There's nothing to report.

I feel someone looking at me and turn to see Grey standing at the entrance to the office.

"Sir."

"I'd like to leave at 7.30pm, Taylor. It won't be a late night; Miss Steele will need to be taken home after we've had dinner at my parents."

He pulls a face and I don't know whether it's because dinner with his folks is on the menu or because Miss Steele won't be staying the night. _Jeez, he's got it bad_.

He wanders away like he doesn't know what to do with himself without his new playmate and I'm guessing that Miss Steele's stamina isn't up to scratch. If I know the boss, which I do, he'll be signing her up for four sixty-minute sessions with a personal trainer as well as fucking her senseless on a semi-regular basis. Maybe she should just enlist in the Marines: it would be easier for her.

Half an hour later I hear the sound of Dean Martin echoing out from the main room and I know he's in a good mood again. _Jeez, the guy changes his mood more often than Joan Rivers changes her face. _The easy-listening combo is usually his music of choice when he's feeling mellow. Gail likes Dean Martin and Rosemary Clooney but I'm more of a Frank man, myself. Although you can't beat a bit of Elvis, in his pre-Vegas days, of course.

I hear the sound of 'Witchcraft' drifting through the speakers. I'm already in place waiting to leave so I glimpse the boss sweeping Miss Steele into a dance. I'm not much of a dancer: swaying to the music whilst making out with my girl is more my thing. Gail likes to dance – she says it's the only area where I disappoint. I know she's just joking but that comment stings. So I'm sensitive: who knew?

He leans down to kiss her and whispers something that makes her smile.

It's a strange job being someone's personal staff: the things we see and hear – but then we have to pretend we're deaf, dumb and blind. At least the boss doesn't expect me to act like a half-wit, too. Some employers can't stand having staff with brains.

He looks up and nods at me. That's my signal to go bring the SUV round front. Before I can climb out to open the door for them, the boss saves me the trouble. He makes sure Miss Steele is strapped in. _I bet he enjoys that, kinky fucker_.

At first everything seems fine but then the boss's expression changes and when I look into the rear view mirror, I can see him staring out through the window, frowning. The girl looks nervous, biting her lip and glancing at him every few seconds. Poor kid: she looks like she's about to be questioned by the FBI and he's completely ignoring her.

I really wish he'd asked me to play some music, but I can't interrupt all the brooding that's going on back there.

In the end the uncomfortable silence gets too much for the girl and she asks him where he learned to dance. He stares at her for a moment then says,

"Do you really want to know? Mrs Robinson was fond of dancing."

For a moment I can't think who they're talking about: then it hits me. Mrs Robinson is Elena Lincoln. _Good name for the bitch. _Seems I was right about the extent of her relationship with the boss. I've always suspected but now I know for sure. I saw him dancing with her in the apartment once. Yeah, this all makes sense and _Miss Steele knows about her_. I've really underestimated this Steele girl: she's got the boss dancing to her tune, so to speak. If he's telling her his secrets, it must be serious, like Gail said. And, let's face it: he's got some big fucking secrets to hide.

The boss looks like he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. That Sinatra song had it right: he's bewitched alright. He's got it bad. I don't know why it bothers me. Maybe because he's unpredictable enough; add love-sick into the game and the guy might just blow. Fucking Krakatowa, like I said. Or maybe, _and this is top fucking secret_, maybe it's because I feel protective of this girl. No: that's baloney. It's just a fucking job. And there are other jobs out there if this one goes ass up.

The girl is staring out the window and I'd say her thoughts aren't happy ones. The boss whispers something to her that makes her turn, and then he picks up her hand and kisses it. It's a real sweet gesture. _Jeez, he'll be watching Julia Roberts films next and that English fag with the floppy hair – the one who got busted for being blown by a hooker: does all those sappy romances._ Gail likes those sorts of films: it's her one flaw. But hell, they make her horny, too, so I'm not going to complain.

Ok, it _seemed_ like the boss was being romantic but then he starts going on about cable ties and the girl turns beet red.

I've known a fair few women in my time and I have to say, none of them were turned on by having the words 'cable tie' whispered in their ear. Women are weird like that.

A few minutes before 8pm I cruise into the driveway of Grey Sr. They've improved the security since I first started working for the boss, but it's still an easy place to scope if you know what you're doing.

He asks her, "Are you ready for this?" but I'd say that of the two he is the more nervous. I guess coming out as straight to your folks when they've assumed your gay must be pretty hard, or just fucking funny, depending on your point of view.

Then he says something to her that makes her blush _again_. I'm _really_ glad I don't know what he said.

They head in and I take the car round to the back – the usual routine. Even from that distance I can hear Miss Mia Grey shrieking like a drunken Marine on pay night. That woman is _loud_.

I head for the kitchen and speed-eat my way through chorizo and scallops. It's good, but not as good as Gail's.

I think I've been pretty damn fast, although not nearly fast enough. I've got my back to the wall, but it's not looking good because…

"Hi, Taylor!" says Miss Mia Grey, in the gentle tones of a trucker from Tacoma.

She walks towards me and I make a rapid assessment of the possible exits; I don't rule out digging a tunnel through the kitchen floor. Her eyes are all big and sad and then she lays her hand on my arm and I get ready to take evasive action.

"I'm _really_ sorry," she says.

She's looking at me like my dog just died.

"I know this must be hard for you. I just hope you know that… whatever happens… we'll always be grateful for the way you looked after my brother. I'm sure Christian really cares about you… in his own way."

_What the fuck?_

"I'll give you a moment…"

_What the fuck?_

Then she pats me on the arm again and walks out, glancing back at me as if to check I'm not slitting my wrists. I'm left sitting with my jaw on the floor.

_What the fuck?_

Did she…? Did I…? Was that…? Is she…? _WHAT THE FUCK? I am NOT the boss's fucking BOYFRIEND! NO FUCKING WAY!_

Then Gretchen, the Grey family's helper, enters the kitchen. She's got a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.

"You cannot be serious! He likes _her!_ That mousey little thing? Christian deserves better than _her!_" She glances at me. "Sorry, Jason. I know you really liked him, too."

_Ok, so I'm not the only one who isn't taking this well – and I've had enough of this shit!_

"Gretchen: you can screw the whole Mariners' team for all I care. I AM NOT GRAY – I mean GAY! I'm not gay! Ok? Geddit? Straight as a fucking ruler."

Then her face goes all soft and sweet.

"It's ok, Jason. No-one cares these days."

Now I'm not usually a quick tempered person; I'm more of a sort of slow-burn kinda guy, but it's been a really trying fucking day.

"Listen, lady! Do you want me to fuck you over the kitchen table just to make a point?"

She gets a real gleam in her eye and a speculative look on her face. That's it: I'm outta here.

I storm back to the car, trying really fucking hard not to look like I'm having an aneurysm. I sit in the car silently fuming. I need some music to calm me down.

"Whaaaat?"

The Bridge is playing 'Candle in the Wind' and Seventies on Seven is playing an ABBA compilation.

"I am not a friend of Dorothy!" I yell at the radio.

_Yeah, you could say I'm just a little irate!_

I know what would soothe me: some serious Gail-time.

A scream rings through the night air and I'm out of the car, reaching for my gun when I see the boss striding through the yard with Miss Steele slung over his shoulder. It takes a second before the adrenalin burns itself out and I head back to the car feeling like I've just had a herd of elephants run over my ass.

_Jeez. I really need to get another job_.

Twenty minutes later I get a text from the boss to bring the car round front.

Miss Steele's ballsy friend is leaving with Grey's brother and they've got get-a-room painted all over them. The boss and Miss Steele are being nauseatingly lovey-dovey. Oh hell.

I open the door for Miss Steele, wearing my hear-no-evil, see-no-evil face.

The boss looks relaxed. _So he should – he's a walking, talking, fucking machine_.

"Well, it seems my family likes you, too," he says to her.

She looks confused.

"I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents."

And for once I'm not the only one who looks like he hasn't brought all his sandwiches to the picnic.

The boss is pretty damn surprised – and I can see why. _The girl has no clue how into her he is_.

Which, I guess, is not unreasonable because, let's face it, the boss's idea of wooing a woman involves getting her to sign an NDA, fucking her into next week, while she's tied to a bed with cable ties. That's got to be more that a bit fucking confusing, right?

"Don't worry about Taylor. Talk to me," he says.

_No, please don't worry about me: your chauffeur has his eyes closed_.

"Yes. I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados. I haven't made up my mind."

_Georgia?_

"Do you want to go and see your mother?"

"Yes."

_Of course she does! She's dating the King of Pain!_

"Can I come with you?"

_Fuuuuck! _I nearly crash the car. _Just swerving around that possum, boss._

"Um… I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I was hoping for a break from all this… intensity to try and think things through."

"I'm too intense?"

_No shit, Sherlock!_

I'm amazed and more than a little relieved to hear Miss Steele laughing. _Yeah, she laughs at him_. That'll please Gail.

But suddenly the conversation darkens again and I've really got to feel for the boss. He's put himself out there for this girls and it sounds like she's having second thoughts. Grey certainly thinks so.

"Talk to me, Anastasia. I don't want to lose you. This last week…"

And I know what he wants to say, but he can't manage to get the words out. She's rocked his world and he doesn't know how to stop himself from falling.

_Sorry, buddy. There's no parachute for that journey. Trust me, I know_.

She looks down and for one awful minute I think she's going to tell him that it's over. But I'm wrong. Again.

"I still want more," she whispers.

And I know in that moment that Gail is right. She loves _him_ not the things he can give her. In those few words she's telling him she wants more of his heart, more of his love – more of him. The question is: can he give that to her?

There's a long silence and she's not the only one waiting to see how this plays out.

"For you, Anastasia, I will try."

And then she climbs into his lap and kisses him. I stare straight ahead at the road and I suddenly realize I've been holding my breath, too.

_For fucks sake – it's just a job, Taylor!_

But then he tells her to think about it while she's away and not to sign his contract yet. _Maybe there is hope for the twisted fucker_.

And guess what he says next; the words every woman longs to hear,

"You really should wear your seatbelt."

What an _asshole!_

I shake my head. Nope. No hope for him.

**Thanks to Amy for all the Seattleisms! **


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

I drop off Miss Steele and the boss out front then go park the SUV in the underground garage.

I decide to take the service elevator up to the penthouse: from the look on the boss's face I don't think Miss Steele will be getting much sleep and I _really_ don't want to bump into them before he gets her into the bedroom. At least that's where I assume he'll take her, but with the boss, there's never such thing as a done deal.

He held her in his arms while she slept for almost the entire journey which was kinda sweet. He's fallen for her big time but I still have my doubts about their relationship or contract or whatever the fuck it is. I mean, let's face it, finding a sweetie like Miss Steele, all innocent and beautiful, who's willing to let him beat the shit out of her and fuck her in more ways than I've had hot dinners – he'd have to be lottery-lucky to find all that in one person.

_But maybe it's his turn_.

The boss really isn't a laugh-a-minute kind of guy; and I get why. A lot of the reasons for this are, quite literally, stamped all over his body. Not only that, he's got tens of thousands of people in half a dozen different countries living off what he pays them. If he screws up, that's a lot of people unemployed. Plus he's a walking, talking, fucking target for all the whackos out there who hate him because of his wealth – which is where I come in. And whatever went on with him and the Ice Queen when he was a kid, he's been pretty fucked up about women ever since. Maybe it's true that everybody gets a chance at redemption. The question is: will he be smart enough to take it?

All this worrying about the boss is giving me a fucking headache. I'm really glad it's Sunday because I know that Gail will be waiting for me when I get back – and that woman is the best cure for headaches that I've ever known.

It's quiet as I make my way silently through the apartment. I wasn't trained in covert ops for nothing. Who knew it would come in so handy for being close protection for a twisted fucker like Grey. Some weekends, when he had his subs around, I needed a pair of blinkers to walk through the apartment. I mean, I _really_ don't need to see the boss fucking in his study, in the main room, in the kitchen, and once _in my fucking office!_ Bastard! It took me a while to look at the CCTV table in the same way, for fucks sake. Images like that get burned into a man's brain.

I turn off the lights as I go but the apartment is never really dark, not with the city glowing softly below. I like not having curtains. Weird, I know.

Gail's bedroom door is slightly ajar. Officially we still have separate bedrooms but my room hardly ever gets slept in. Sometimes I sleep in there if I've got a really early start and I don't want to wake her up. I hate those nights: the bed is just too damn big and cold without her.

I take off my jacket and tie and drop them on the sofa, then push open her door. She's asleep, lying on her side, one arm reaching out to the empty space where I really want to be. Her shoulder is bare, pale in the dim light. God, she's beautiful. Her hair is spread out across the pillow like a silver halo. I am one lucky bastard.

I bend down to untie my shoes then kick them under the bed and pull off my socks. I'm moving as quietly as possible but when I tug my shirt over my head, her eyes open, and she blinks sleepily.

"Sorry, baby. I was trying not to wake you."

"I don't mind being woken by you, Mr Taylor. I've missed you."

"I missed you, too, baby. So much."

"Mmm, you've taken your shirt off," she says. "Do you need some help with your pants?"

"I need anything you can give me, baby."

She smiles like a sphinx and sits up. I can't help my eyes following the sheets as they fall to her waist. She's naked and just so fucking fabulous.

She reaches out and tucks her fingers into my waistband, tugging me towards her.

"I think you're pleased to see me, Mr Taylor."

I can't reply because she's running her hand over the fucking enormous bulge that's just made lift-off in my pants.

She unzips me real slow – it's such a fucking turn on. And she's staring up at me the whole time. God, she's so... She grips me – hard. _Fuck!_

And I can't wait anymore. I pull off my pants and step out of them.

"Did you just drop your pants on the floor, Mr Taylor?"

"What? Yeah, so?"

"What have I told you about leaving your clothes on the floor?"

She looks really pissed. _What the fuck?_

"You think I'm here just to pick up after you?" she says angrily.

"Gail, no! Of course not!"

She grabs the waistband of my boxer briefs and yanks them down. It's only just not painful.

"You've been bad, Jason. You need to be punished… And you need to be restrained."

_What?_

And she pulls out a pair of pink, fluffy handcuffs from underneath her pillow.

I break out into a cold sweat. Since when was Gail into this kinky shit? _She's been working here too long!_

"Er, Gail… I really don't…"

"Hush now, Jason. This isn't going to hurt… much! Happy anniversary, darling."

She throws me onto the bed and straddles me.

"Aaaagh!"

"Jason! Jason! What's the matter?"

I realize I'm thrashing around in the bed as Gail sits up and turns on her sidelight.

I screw up my eyes against the brightness and let my breathing return to something like normal.

"Jason, what on earth is the matter?"

Her voice is filled with concern.

"Oh, god, just a…" _Christ! I just dreamed about Gail and handcuffs and… fuck me!_

"Did you have a nightmare?"

_Was it a nightmare?_ Mmm, maybe not. But, Gail with handcuffs?

"Noooo, not exactly."

"Then what?"

She runs her soft fingers over my chest as I sit up and lean back against the headboard. And suddenly I really don't want to admit to her what I was dreaming about. _Fucking Grey! It's his fault, the twisted fucker!_

"Tell me, darling," she says, her voice hypnotic, edged with worry.

_I can't lie to this woman._

But I'm trained in special ops, tactics and war games.

I take evasive action, pinning her down to the bed and running my hands over her beautiful, round, soft breasts. And, apart from the handcuffs, I take over where my dream ended.

"Jason! What's got into you?"

"I don't know, baby, but I sure as hell want to get into you!"

"I have to be up in a few hours!"

"I'm up now, baby."

She laughs and runs her nails down my back.

"You've got a very persuasive argument, Jason."

She runs her teeth down my throat and across my shoulder then bites me.

I push my hands up between her thighs and I can feel her body tremble under mine; she moans into my neck and bites me again. _I'm going to be black and blue tomorrow – but it'll be worth it_.

Normally I like to take my time but after the day I've had, that fucking weird nightmare or dream or whatever the fuck it was, and those teasing little bites, I'm done waiting. I plunge into her and feel her amazing warm, wet pussy, so soft and tight, stroking me all the way up, all the way up to my hilt. _Fuck!_ Then she clenches around me and I'm pounding into her – from nought to ninety in one second: top, fucking gear.

She rakes her nails down my back, making me call out, then wraps her legs around my waist and locks her heels behind me.

I push harder, my head buried in her neck, breathing like I've just sprinted a mile in full kit and 40 pounds of body armor.

Her body starts to tremble and quiver and she squeezes me inside and out. I grit my teeth and silently urge her on.

She comes beautifully, shatteringly and, relieved, I follow her, thrusting hard and letting go.

Our bodies are locked together, a film of sweat making her skin gleam.

I don't want to pull out of her but after half a minute, she unlocks her legs and pushes gently against my chest. Reluctantly, I let her go and lie at her side, my head resting on her stomach.

She strokes my hair softly.

"Goodness, Jason! What was all that about?"

"Just pleased to see you, baby."

"So it seems! Are you going to tell me what woke you up? You sounded like you were having a nightmare."

_I really don't want to think about that._

"Nothing that you couldn't put right, baby."

I pull her more tightly to me and thank god that I took a job with a weird, fucked up, billionaire from Seattle.

It's Monday morning but I have the luxury of sleeping in. Once I knew Miss Steele didn't need to be driven back to her place in the Pike Market district, I knew the boss wouldn't be going for an early morning run.

I was hoping to work on some more evasive tactics with Gail but she swatted my wandering hands away and bribed me with the promise of bacon and pancakes… if I'm 'good'.

_Why, Mrs Jones! I'm always good with you around._

Gail interrupts my pleasant daydreams by bringing me breakfast in bed. I can't help grinning at her.

"You are an accomplished woman, Mrs Jones."

"Why, thank you, Mr Taylor. An unexpected but very welcome compliment."

"And you sure can cook, woman!"

"Is that the beginning and end of my talents, Mr Taylor? Because if I remember correctly, and I was taking notes at the time, last night you said I fucked like a vestal virgin on a Sunday school outing with the high school football team. I paraphrase, of course."

I grin up at her. "Paraphrase, huh?"

"Well, possibly a verbatim report. By the way, I've just met Mr Grey's young lady."

"Oh?"

"I think I embarrassed her. She clearly didn't know who I was – she probably thinks I'm one of his subs!"

She laughs at the idea but I'm not so pleased. I don't want anyone having that thought about Gail. But, of course, that's exactly what I wondered when I first met her. The memory pisses me off.

"She seems very sweet, Miss Steele. And very… er… amorous!"

"Yeah, she and the boss fuck like it's about to be rationed."

"Hmm, well, it seems to be catching, Mr Taylor."

I reach up to grab her but she dodges out of the way.

"You are not getting maple syrup on the sheets again!" she says severely.

"Sure?"

"Well, not on a work day. Besides, I think Mr Grey will be wanting to talk to you, although he's not going into the office until 2pm."

"I have a few ideas about how we can spend the time until then," I say.

And this time she's not quick enough. I'm _really_ looking forward to getting her all sticky.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17 – Hell on Wheels**

Miss Steele has driven back to her apartment in her shiny, red A3 and I've taken the boss to Grey House. Now I'm heading back to Escala to help Gail with the grocery shopping. Having four adults in the apartment has severely depleted reserves apparently.

Gail is waiting at the entrance when I drive up. Damn, she looks _hot_. There's something so incredibly sexy about that crisp white blouse and smart, pencil skirt: all that passion, all those amazing curves, hidden by a severe uniform. Maybe it's just me. Nope: not just me. Frank, the doorman has too many fucking eyeballs on her. _Back off, asshole! She's taken!_

I pull up a short distance from the entrance. _No way I'm having that fucker open the door for her!_ I jump out and give Frank a warning stare. He steps back. _Yeah, message received and understood, pencil neck!_

I help Gail into the SUV and she raises an eyebrow at me, an amused expression on her face. _Yeah, yeah, just taking care of my lady_.

"Where to, ma'am?"

"Uptown, please, Jason. The Market: I really need to do some serious re-stocking and they have the best cheese selection. It's been lovely having Miss Steele to stay, she's such a sweetheart, but we do seem to have got through a lot more food than usual."

"Probably because they spend all their time fu… er… screw... They need the energy."

"I could say the same about you, Jason," she says challengingly.

"I'm addicted to you, baby. Makes me hungry… and not just for food."

"Concentrate on driving, Jason!"

"Yes, ma'am," I grin at her.

She shakes her head, but she's smiling.

"Well," she says, amused, "at least Mr Grey will be back to his normal routine for a few days."

Ok, normality and the boss aren't two concepts that I'd usually expect to find in one sentence. Besides, I think she's wrong.

"You think? Because my guess it's going to be Portland all over again."

"What do you mean?"

"Gail, it's going to be early morning runs, working out in the gym at all hours, kicking the shit out of Claude, and yelling at Olivia until she pukes. Better head for the storm cellar because Hurricane Grey is back in town."

"Oh, dear."

_Yeah. _

"Poor Olivia."

There's a pause.

"Do you think that Miss Steele is _the one_?"

I shrug. "Maybe. But I expect the boss will manage to fuck it up."

"What do you mean? He seems really into her: I heard him telling Andrea to find out what flight she was taking and upgrade her to first class. In fact, he even offered her the jet – but she turned him down. I like her and he seems smitten. So why would he… mess it up?"

It's a good question but kinda hard to answer. The boss tries to be a good man. Despite scaring the crap out of Olivia and most of his staff, he takes their well-being seriously. He offers first rate medical and dental and, given the fact that he hardly ever has a day off himself, his holiday allowance is more generous than most companies offer. None of which can be applied to Miss Steele's case.

"Because he's never had a girlfriend before – not a real one. Because he doesn't know how to deal with it when she stands up to him. Because he's not used to putting someone else's feelings before his own. When I first met her I thought she was this quiet, gentle little kid – and she is – but in her own way, she won't take any of his shit."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, who wants a woman who does exactly as they're told all the time?"

Gail rolls her eyes at me and out of the corner of my eye I see her holding back a smile.

"I just mean that even though part of him likes that she stands up to him, he's got no… coping mechanism for it except…"

I hesitate to finish the sentence, but I don't need to.

"Yes, I see what you mean," says Gail, sounding serious. "I really hope you're wrong, Jason."

_So do I_.

We park at in the underground garage for the Queen Anne Metropolitan Market and I escort Gail to the deli while she runs her eyes over what looks like a very long list.

"Jason, why don't you go get a coffee: this is going to take a while. Give me half an hour?"

"Sure, baby."

I head off to a nearby coffee shop, grateful for the chance to spend some quality time reading the sports section and checking out the Cougars and the Redhawks.

I've been there about 20 minutes when there's a commotion at the cash register. I push my chair back, my automatic reaction to unexpected sound, my hand reaching towards my shoulder holster. But it's completely unwarranted and I feel pretty dumb when I see two elderly ladies in the self-service line looking shocked and upset: their tea and muffins scattered across the counter, the change purse of the older one strewn over the floor.

_Yeah, I can see the headlines: security officer in granny-gate massacre._

Luckily no-one has noticed my Korth revolver and the waitress is more concerned with clearing up the spillages.

"Can I help you, ladies? Do you usually throw your money around?"

I bend down and start picking up the dimes and quarters.

"Oh, thank you, young man! Thank you! I don't know what happened! I'm all fingers and thumbs. How clumsy of me."

"That's ok, ma'am. Happy to help."

About five bucks worth of change has gone flying across the café but I think I've gotten all of it.

Meanwhile the waitress has replaced the tea and muffins with ill grace and carried it to a vacant table. The old ladies are still chirruping their distress and I really want to shake the sour-faced pit-bull of a waitress.

I pour the heap of coins onto the table.

"There's your change, ma'am. You look after that."

"Oh, thank you so much, young man. Please, let us buy you a coffee for your trouble – we interrupted you."

"That's ok, ma'am. I'd about finished it anyway. Just happy to help."

I shrug off their thanks as I check my watch. Time to go collect Gail.

I can see them waving through the coffee shop window as I saunter out, and the one who dropped the change purse blows me a kiss. Jeez, if she'd had her teeth in, she'd have whistled at me. _Yep, still got it._

Gail is just finishing at the check-out when I catch up with her. I help her load the bags into the shopping cart and wheel it out to the SUV.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" she says.

I hadn't realised I was smiling. I wondered why my face felt so weird.

"A woman offered to buy me coffee. I guess she thought I was hot."

"Well, I can't argue with that Jason. Should I be jealous?"

"No, baby. She wasn't my type."

We drive home listening to songs from 'Evita'. What is it about women and show tunes? I don't get it.

I just have time to help Gail get all the shopping bags to the staff kitchen when my Blackberry buzzes.

"Gotta go, baby. The boss wants picking up."

"Oh, I'd better hustle and get dinner ready then."

She turns to go. _Oh no, baby, not yet_. I sweep her into my arms and kiss her hard. Her lip-gloss tastes of strawberries.

"Jason! What has gotten into you this week?" She pulls away breathless.

"I think it's the other way round, baby!"

She swats me with a tea-towel and I make a strategic retreat.

I pull up in front of Grey House and text the boss to let him know I'm here. I lean on the hood of the SUV and Joe, the lobby security guard comes out to shoot the breeze.

"Hey, Joe. Anything to report?"

"Naw, Mr Taylor."

"Anyone lose their job today? The boss fire anyone?"

Joe snorts. "Olivia nearly got canned. Leonie told me she's been crying in the ladies room most of the day. Again."

I roll my eyes. "What did she do this time?"

"The Seattle Times phoned up to confirm a rumor that's going around: they'd heard that the boss was taking a date to one of those fancy galas on Saturday."

"And?"

"Apparently she said, 'I can't confirm whether or not Miss Steele will be accompanying Mr Grey'."

I shake my head. Olivia really is as dumb as glue. "I can't believe she fell for that old trick: Andrea must be going crazy."

Joe grins. "Yep, she's been fielding calls ever since. Mr Grey was pretty heated up about it. So is it true? The boss has finally got himself a girlfriend? I always thought he was the wrong way up the turnpike."

"No comment, Joe."

We see the boss cannoning through the lobby, staff practically diving out of his way. He really takes the phrase 'looking pissed' to a whole new dimension. _So what's new? _Joe straightens up and opens the car door. Grey scowls at him before muttering a quiet 'thank you'. He gets in without speaking, tension rolling off him in waves. _It's going to be a long, long evening_.

I head out into the evening traffic. In the mirror I can see the boss glancing at this Blackberry every few seconds. It doesn't take a genius to work out he's waiting to hear from Miss Steele.

Finally he gets a message and his whole body relaxes. Irritatingly I find that I relax at the same time. I'm going to have to put a note on my calendar, _Get yourself a fucking life_.

All the way back to Escala he's tapping messages into his cell phone, but he looks happy enough. Maybe she really will miss him. He's already had Welch check out the mother and her new husband. I'm almost surprised he hasn't put surveillance in place but then again, he already tracks every movement via her cell phone. It's compulsive: he can't help himself. If she knew half the time he spent worrying about her she'd probably hightail it to the hills. Or be flattered. Nope, I'm voting for the hills. But she doesn't know. Innocent Miss Steele: she really hasn't a clue that she's become the centre of the boss's world.

He heads straight into his study, saying that he'll eat after he's been for a run. Which means after _we've _been for a run. Not that I mind. At least I get to stay fit in this job.

We pound our way around a six mile circuit and it's the Heathman all over again: running to try and empty his brain; running to escape his own thoughts; running to escape his compulsion to control. He can never run fast enough. I almost feel sorry for him.

Gail serves him up some damn fine sea bass steaks with fries and salad. I know they're damn fine because we're having the same meal. But the boss eats alone.

"How is he?"

I frown at Gail. _Jeez, can't we have _one_ meal where we _don't _talk about him?_

"His normal fucked up self."

"Jason!"

I shrug. It's true: we both know it.

"Perhaps you should go talk to him."

"And say what? He's my boss, not my buddy. And the only person he wants to talk to has flown 2,942 miles to get away from him."

"I thought she was going to see her mother?"

"Sure, but she also told him she needed a break from him: she told him he was intense."

"She didn't!"

"Yeah, it was pretty fucking funny. But you know what: he offered to go to Georgia with her. She told him she didn't think that was a good idea."

"Oh, Jason! Sometimes you men are so literal!"

_What? She's lumping me in with _him_? I don't fucking think so!_

"I'm sure she'll miss him… if he gives her a chance to. Poor Mr Grey."

"Poor, he ain't."

"You know what I mean, Jason."

_Whatever_.

My Blackberry buzzes.

"The boss is going to the gym: I'll just go and do a quick sweep. Back in a minute, baby."

I'm not anticipating any trouble; only half of the 245 units at Escala are occupied, and many of those seem to have discovered the gym. And even fewer at 11pm.

Yep, the place is deserted, which is how the boss likes it. I sometimes wonder that he doesn't buy the whole building just to keep it for himself. He really isn't a people person.

"Thank you, Taylor. I won't need you again tonight, but I'll be running at 5.30am tomorrow."

_Fuck. Yep, Portland all over again_.

I head back up and persuade Gail that clearing up isn't nearly as interesting as what I have in mind. She's a woman of weak will: I fucking love that about her.

I fall asleep curled up in her arms. But not for long enough. At some point in the night, I'm vaguely aware that the boss is playing his piano.

As I crawl out of bed at 5am, I'm seriously thinking of contacting Miss Steele and begging her to come back early. Maybe if I paid her…

One good thing about running so early, it breaks the routine. I get a bit nervous if the boss runs at the same time for several days in succession. It makes him an easy target. We vary the route but even so… and with Olivia's foot swallowing trick, the paparazzi will be out in force. Probably more on Saturday than right now. Although I don't see any of those lazy fuckers getting up at 5am.

He seems in a much better mood on the way to the office so I can only assume Miss Steele has deigned to send him an email, although he looks preoccupied, not his usual bastard self.

The day drags. The only entertainment is watching Olivia try to avoid Andrea's icy stare and get back in her good graces: not this side of Christmas, at any rate. I wouldn't want to mess with Andrea: I reckon she could kneecap a guy from a thousand yards just by throwing him a harsh look. Which is how come she's managed to keep a job as Grey's PA for so long. The cool blonde thing isn't an act with her: you could freeze ice cubes on her ass.

The boss insists on another long run at lunchtime. It makes me laugh my ass off in a strong-silent-type sort of way, when I see half the female staff hanging around in the lobby just to see the boss returning all sweaty. _Dream on, ladies; it ain't never gonna happen_. Jeez, there's even one there my mother's age! Don't these women have any shame lusting after a guy of 27? Nope. None. Zilch. Nada. Zip. What a dumb fucking question.

Shortly after lunch, Ros comes over to my office and knocks on the door.

"You got a moment, Jason?"

"Sure, Ros. What do you need?"

She comes in and closes the door. _Hmm. _

"What's up with Christian? He's been rampaging through the building for the last half an hour. I'm surprised the place isn't on lock down. Barney has threatened to quit and nothing usually bothers him. Olivia is crying, although that's nothing new, and Joyce in PR has had to order in Krispy Kremes and lemon meringue pie for the whole floor to avoid a mass walk out. I need to know what's going on, Jason. I wouldn't ask otherwise. I don't think it's anything to do with business, but if it is…"

"Ros, you know I can't talk to you about the boss."

"Don't give me that fucking bullshit, Jason. I've known him for seven years and I've _never _seen him like this. I need to know what the problem is."

She's right: she needs to know but I really don't want to be the snitch. I take a deep breath.

"It's about a woman."

She blinks. "A woman?"

_Jeez, it's a fucking echo!_

"What sort of woman?"

_Oh for fucks sake! The kind with tits and an ass! What do you mean, what sort of woman?!_

I stare at her impassively waiting for the penny to drop. I wait. And wait. And… then I give up.

"A girlfriend, Ros."

Her bewildered expression makes me want to laugh out loud, but then a slow smile wraps itself around her teeth.

"So the rumors _are _true. Christian has a girlfriend! What's she like? Ok, don't answer that: none of my business. But that's great – really great." She pauses mid way through her attack of adulation. "Well, why's he in such a bad mood then? Must be a nice change for him to get some."

_If only you knew how fucking funny that is_.

"She had to go away."

"Oh. Well, that explains it. First love and all that. Ok, well nothing for me to worry about. At least, I don't think so."

She frowns then looks up. "This girlfriend… she didn't go to Savannah by any chance, did she?"

_Now how the hell do you know that?_

Ros smirks. "Christian happened to mention there was a plot of land down there that he was interested in looking at. I wondered why he'd suddenly come up with Georgia when we've put a thousand man hours into casing Detroit. Well, well, Christian in love. This should be interesting."

_Yeah, yeah, and the Chinese have a curse: May you live in interesting times_.

She leaves, smiling to herself but my mouth doesn't seem to want to join in. _I have a bad feeling about this_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 – Georgia on My Mind**

After Ros's out-of-character inquisition, the afternoon passes in relative peace. The boss has asked Welch to initiate checks into the staff at one of the small publishing houses in Seattle and my job is to make an informal visit to see how far I get before I'm asked for ID.

Do I think this has got something to do with the interview Miss Steele had yesterday? Nope. None. Not at all. Well fuck me. A flying fucking pig.

Seattle Independent Publishing is housed in a quiet side street a couple of blocks from Barnes and Noble, which seems apt. There are five-storys to the red-brick building with a metal fire escape on the east and north faces. I stroll past, estimating it would take me between two and three minutes to break into the building. Probably two. I don't like to boast.

I stroll into reception and when I think the attractive woman on reception might say something to me, I wink at her.

She blinks a couple of times, then smiles, and tosses her long, straitened hair over her shoulders and sits up a bit taller, showing off an impressive cleavage.

_I might have been interested once, baby, but I've got all the woman I can handle. So thanks, but no thanks_.

The only CCTV in the lobby is trained towards the front entrance. There's nothing else. Once you've breached that, you're home and dry.

There are two dark green leather Chesterfields where visitors can take a load off. They remind me of the boss's playroom. Yup, I think Grey would feel right at home here: a choice of whipping benches and stark, white prison-style walls. I kinda hope Miss Steele gets the other job she was going for. Not that it would make a difference: the poor kid doesn't stand a chance either way.

I head through to the open plan offices behind reception and make my way across the ground floor. A few people look up as I wander around, but no-one challenges me. I take the stairs two at a time up to the next floor, but it's the same story: no name, no pack drill.

It's a good thing I'm such an upright, morally-aware citizen, otherwise I could have ripped off this joint big time. Hell, I could hire a semi and come back in the night and strip the place of computers. They're so damned naïve, they'd probably write me a fucking thank you note.

I'm just leaving when a guy with long, red hair and hippie fucking earrings sees me. He frowns.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope. Just leaving."

He stares after me. The bastard has cold eyes and I recognise his type. Suddenly I'm really glad it isn't Gail who is going to be working there.

I head back to Grey House. I've been gone 90 minutes and the boss hasn't canned anyone. Maybe he has a heart after all. I review the evidence: Olivia isn't crying – check; Barney is wandering around with his ass hanging out of his jeans looking chilled – check; Andrea's blood pressure appears to have returned to below zero – check. And then I see the boss smiling at his computer and I nearly pass out: _too fucking weird!_

I really miss the pre-Miss Steele-good-ole-bad-ole days… the days when the earth still turned just once in every 24 hours.

The boss says he'll be leaving in an hour; I've just got time to read the prelim reports that Welch has sent through. Nothing much of interest: a couple of members of staff with cautions for smoking dope; one guy who got caught with anabolic steroids; couple of DUIs. But then something catches my attention: one of the senior editors has had five different assistants in the last 18 months. _Why? _ I click open the personnel file and I instantly recognise the fucker: cold blue eyes, red hair, hippy-shit earrings… the man who interviewed Miss Steele yesterday; the man who would be Miss Steele's boss. My spider senses are tingling – and not in a good way.

I wonder what the best way will be to let the boss know – without having the man strung by his balls. Guilty until proven innocent seems to be the boss's motto when it comes to Miss Steele. Or, now I think about it, any human biped.

"Anything to report, Taylor?"

I can't help jumping when I hear his voice behind me. I look up and see the fucker is amused. _Bastard_.

"Building is wide open, sir. Security is for shit – needs a complete overhaul."

"What else?"

I don't answer but point to the screen.

He scans through the file on one Jack Hyde and scowls.

People who don't know the boss think he's cool, calm and collected. And he can be, but when you know him like I do, you know there's a barely restrained violence bubbling under the surface. Anything that permeates his carefully controlled world and it's like waiting for Mount St Helens, part two.

He doesn't say anything but I know he's imagining all sorts of violent solutions to sort out the man who could be Miss Steele's new boss, but he doesn't say anything.

On the other hand, if Hyde ends up knee-capped in an alley one dark night, my first suspect would be a certain fucked up, billionaire control freak.

"I want to make a stop on the way home, Taylor."

"Sir."

We head back to his office where he collects his jacket. Olivia swallows and goes pale; the ice maiden gives a chilly smile and the boss's entourage, yours truly, head down to the elevator.

The Cartier franchise is made up like a tart's boudoir of green marble and gilt wall sconces. I wouldn't be surprised if there were king-sized beds in the backroom with slut-red sheets. I nod at the security guy as a professional courtesy. I can see him checking me out to see if I'm carrying. Pu-leeze: this is a custom-made suit – if you can tell I'm packing, I'd have to shoot the guy who made it.

I can see what he's thinking: _You only look after one guy – I have a whole store full of expensive jewellery to look after_.

Fucking light weight. Maybe he'd like to try being personal security for billions of dollars worth of a walking, talking, fucking Mount Vesuvius. Or maybe I should just kick his fat ass.

Grey picks out a pair of classy diamond earrings. I'd bet my year's salary that they're for a certain wanna-be publishing assistant, currently vacationing in Savannah.

For the briefest of moments I feel regret that there's nothing in here that I could afford to buy Gail. This store is for the seriously wealthy. But would I want all the shit that goes with it? No. I can walk away from this game at any time; Grey can't.

He seems to relax slightly as we head home. He pulls out his cell and I'm really hoping he's not going to call Miss Steele: I hate to blush and drive.

"Elena, hi… yes, good thanks… What? No… are you free for dinner tonight? …Eight? Good. I'll pick you up… what? ...French… Ok."

I groan inwardly. How fucking dumb can you get?! His girlfriend is out of town less than 24 hours and the first thing he does is arrange to hook up with De Sade's second cousin. I really hope Miss Steele doesn't find out about this because if she does, she'll kick the boss's sorry ass out of state – in a quiet, non-violent sort of way. And, frankly, he'll fucking deserve it. I admit I may not be one of those New Men that Gail tells me she's read about in magazines at the hair salon – Neanderthal seems to be one of her favorite adjectives when it comes to me, I have no fucking idea why – but even I'm not dumb enough to do what the boss is doing. And I have a horrible feeling he'll just go ahead and tell Miss Steele who he's seeing anyway, because when it comes to reading women's feelings, the boss is still at the starting gate. Sure, sure, he can make them come like the fucking Orient Express, but he still knows shit about women.

I drop him at the entrance to Escala then go park the SUV.

Gail is in the staff kitchen and something smells really good. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the back of her neck.

"Mmm, you taste good."

"Jason! I'm cooking!"

"So am I, baby! Warming up nicely."

She laughs and pulls free. "How was your day?"

I shrug. "Ros wanted to know why the boss was acting so weird."

"What did you tell her?"

"She was freaking out that it was something to do with the business end of things. I told her he had a girlfriend and let her work out the rest for herself."

"I bet she was surprised: she's known him longer than anyone, other than his family."

_Yup. Surprised, shocked, stunned. That about covers it._

Which reminds me… "It's just you and me tonight, baby; the boss is going out."

"Oh! There was nothing on the calendar?"

"He's going out for dinner. With Mrs Lincoln."

"_That woman!_"

She folds her arms and looks pissed.

Yup. Pretty much the same reaction I had.

"I really thought he had more sense! I just don't know what he sees in that woman. Well, I just hope Miss Steele doesn't find out."

"Baby, he'll probably just tell her."

She gapes at me. "Surely not! Why? I mean, if that were you going off to have dinner with your ex- the minute I was out of town and you told me, I'd…" She stops and purses her lips. "Oh! Sometimes I wonder about Mr Grey!"

"You, me and half the western hemisphere, baby."

I run my hand up her thigh, tugging her skirt so it's resting next to the tops of her stockings. "Got the whole evening to ourselves, baby. I'm going to make you scream."

She smiles and runs her hands over my hips and gives my ass a good squeeze. I flex my hips into her so she can feel my growing interest.

"Really, Jason, I don't think you should make promises you can't keep."

"Is that a challenge, Mrs Jones?"

"Of course, Mr Taylor."

And I really don't care that I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat has been cut, and I really don't care that the boss is probably still in the building. I sweep Gail over my shoulder and sprint to the bedroom with every intention of showing her who is on top in this relationship. Or maybe we can take turns.

The morning starts like any other: too fucking early. Gail is lying with her head on my chest and one arm wrapped around my waist. The sheets are in a tangle around us and I vaguely wonder why we're lying with our feet pointing towards the headboard.

She stirs softly and I stroke her hair. I love the way it feels at the nape of her neck, all soft and downy. I see one beautiful blue eye blinking up at me.

"Good morning, Jason."

"Hello, beautiful."

She stretches and manages to elbow me in the balls.

"Aagh!"

"Oh, sorry! Oops! Accident." Then she smiles at me. "Want me to kiss it better?"

"Best offer I've had in… er… several hours."

But then my Blackberry buzzes. It's the boss. _Jeez! It's 5am! What did his last slave die of?_

Gail leans over and throws the cell to me.

"Sir?"

"Taylor: I'm flying down to Savannah. Call Stephan. I want to leave before 9am."

"Yes, sir. How many days are we going for?" _Like I can't fucking guess_.

"Back Friday."

He hangs up and Gail sighs. "Where are you going now?"

"Fucking Georgia. ASAP. Sorry, baby. I'll have to take a rain check on that… er… idea."

"Jason, by this point in time I have so many of your rain checks I could start my own weather channel. Go on, off you go. I'd better make breakfast."

She pushes me out of bed and I head for the shower.

Two hundred minutes later we're at Sea-Tac. Pretty good going, but not fast enough for the boss who's acting as jumpy as a short-legged nun at a penguin shoot.

"Stephan, how long till take-off?"

"Oh-nine-thirty-five, Mr Grey. It was the first slot I could get."

"Oh, for fucks sake!"

Which is the boss's way of saying, 'Hey, how ya doin'? Nice weather we've been having'.

"ETA eighteen-thirty Eastern Standard Time."

Stephan is unphazed. He knows the boss didn't graduate charm school.

The flight attendant is a woman I haven't seen before: pretty and uh-oh, brunette. She zeroes in on the boss like a bloodhound on the scent of a bacon sandwich.

"This is Natalia, sir. Anything you want, ask her."

Stephan heads back to the cockpit and Grey frowns at his watch. _Yep, looking at it every 30 seconds is really going to make the plane go faster_.

"May I get you a coffee, sir? Breakfast?"

"No, thank you," he mutters.

She looks disappointed but turns to me, a professional smile embossed on her glossy red lips. "For you, sir."

"Nope. I'm good, thanks."

She pouts and I have a sudden urge to laugh out loud. Ok, well maybe not: although I may have twitched slightly.

We finally take off. I know I'm gripping the arms of my chair and holding my breath. Logically, I know there is no ground-to-air missile aimed at us, but once was enough. It's not something I want to repeat in this lifetime or any other.

As soon as we're airborne the boss pulls out his laptop and starts scrolling through pages of tiny numbers, scowling and muttering to himself. He's so tense, the atmosphere in the plane drops to a balmy minus-ten.

I try to ignore the boss's cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof restless irritation and sink back to enjoy the relative calm of re-reading 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'. Some of the characters remind me of him.

At noon, Natalia risks crossing the threshold from the plane's galley and stands in front of Grey, to offer him something for lunch. From the look on her face I'd say she's put herself the top of the menu.

"May I take your order for lunch, sir?"

Grey glances up and frowns, then scoops up the menu that he's ignored for the last two-and-a-half hours.

"Chicken salad. Thank you."

"And for you, sir?"

Ms Plastique 2011 smiles in my direction.

"Same. Thanks."

Yes, I am a man of few words.

Grey eats his food mechanically. If anyone asked, I doubt he'd be able to tell them what was on his plate. He keeps glancing at his watch. It's so fucking irritating, I'm about ready to jump out of the plane myself, just to make the journey faster.

When the plane door finally opens at Hilton Head, Grey is off and running. It's almost embarrassing, he's so eager to see little Miss Steele. If Gail is right about her being a virgin… that is, having _been_ a virgin until a few weeks ago, I have to assume that she's a quick study.

Andrea has booked us into the Mansion Hotel in the historic downtown district and ordered the usual Audi SUV for me to drive. The SatNav is pre-progammed and I have to hand it to the ice-maiden – she has a good eye for detail.

I see the boss checking his Blackberry and I can pretty much guess that it's not the NY stockmarket that has his undivided attention. He wants to know the latest whereabouts of a certain blue-eyed, brown haired girl from Montesano.

"I won't need you again tonight, Taylor," he says. "I'm not going anywhere this evening."

I must admit that surprises me. We've just flown across the continent and now he's going to… what… wait?! The boss doesn't do waiting. If I didn't know better I'd say he was nervous.

And I admit that makes me curious: what happened to make him change his mind and come hot-footing it down to Georgia today when Miss Steele turned him down last Sunday? Well, he had dinner with Mrs Lincoln last night. What did that bitch say to him? I can't imagine her being pleased that there's another woman in the boss's life – and I don't count the subs; they weren't part of his emotional life. Not like… yeah, yeah, getting repetitive.

I park up and do a quick sweep of the boss's suite. The hotel security is above average, which spares me a couple of migraines or two.

I introduce myself to the head of security, one Walter Dubois.

"Welcome to Jo-ja, Mr Taylor. What can I do for you this fine evenin', suh?"

"Just routine, Mr Dubois. I'm not anticipating any problems while I'm here; no specific security threats. But just to let you know: I don't want any of your armed staff on Mr Grey's floor. And the only access on his visitor list is Miss Anastasia Steele, myself and your usual house-keeping staff."

"And may I ask if you are carrying a firearm, Mr Taylor?"

"Yes, Mr Dubois. Here's my permit and my card. Any problems, please call me first."

"Well, that all seems in order, Mr Taylor. Enjoy your visit, sir."

"Oh, one more thing: I've rented a Bugatti Veyron for a few days. It'll be delivered by the dealership's own security."

I watch his eyes bug out at the thought of a $2 million dollar sports car being parked outside his fine establishment. Jeez, I hate to see a grown man drool.

I head out and find a nice, quiet, untouristy place and order some seafood. While I'm waiting for the food to arrive, I call Gail.

"Hey, baby. Miss me yet?"

"Of course, Jason. How was the flight?"

"Long."

"Is everything ok?"

"Hard to tell. He hasn't been to see her yet. But he wants to take her soaring in the morning at dawn."

"Goodness! He's never done that before! Not even Miss Grey has managed to persuade him to do that – and she is rather tenacious."

_That's one of the words to describe Miss Grey, but I'm too much of a gentleman to say out loud the others that occur to me._

"I don't know, Gail, there's something… off balance about him. I don't get it."

"Oh, really, Jason! He's in love! Of course he's off balance. That's what we women do."

"Fair point, Mrs Jones. But that's not what I meant. He went to see the Lincoln woman last night, right?"

She's silent and I can see that she knows where I'm going with this.

"And you think… what… this is her influence in some way?"

"I don't know what her agenda is, Gail, but that woman is one cold bitch. I just can't see her telling the boss to come down here and be all hearts and flowers. So what does she want?"

"Well, she does care about Mr Grey…"

_Sometimes Gail is just too damn nice!_

"Gail, you can't stand the icy hag any more than I can. Are you seriously telling me she's got Grey's best interests in that cold hole she calls a heart?"

Gail is silent for a moment. "No. I don't think she has Mr Grey's best interests at heart."

_No. Neither do I._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19 – The Long Way Home**

It's pleasant strolling through the late evening Savannah sunshine. The heat of the day has burned itself out and people are taking it easy, chilling out in bars, or sitting on the sidewalk cafés enjoying ice tea. I think I even spotted a mint julep but I'm probably just having a 'Gone with the Wind' moment.

I wish Gail were here. She'd love poking around in all these little shops or people-watching from some watering-hole. She has such a zest for life and I fucking love that about her. I wish I could call her but I know she was planning on taking the afternoon off to go clothes shopping and then have dinner with a friend. I hope she'll buy something sexy.

Ok, I probably shouldn't dwell on that too much, or I'm going to get hot and uncomfortable pretty damn quick. Especially as I'm wearing a denim jacket to hide my shoulder holster.

I decide to go back to the hotel and take a swim in the pool. I hope it's not one of those over-heated pools where people who actually want to swim end up sweating.

But I'm stopped in my tracks when I walk through the bar because Miss Steele is sitting there with an attractive older woman. I recognise her from the files – Miss Steele's much-married mother. And then I spot the boss wandering into the bar. He looks distracted and he's staring at his phone. He looks up and sees her. His expression shifts to wonder and I have to look away, because despite the crowds in the bar, this is a private moment.

I'm not needed so I leave him to it.

Back in my room I use the wall safe to secure my Korth then head to the outdoor pool. But it's a huge disappointment: instead of somewhere I can really swim, it's what they call a 'relaxation pool' which means it's slightly bigger than Sophie's plastic paddling pool. I swim for half an hour anyway and then lounge on the steps, watching the sky change color, sinking towards night.

A few other guests arrive to cool off. Out of habit I keep an eye on who's around me, evaluating any potential problems. Two of the women are staring at me; usually I'm with the boss so he gets the lion's share of the attention, no competition, but travelling all over the world with him, as I do, I've had a certain number of, let's call them, opportunities. You wouldn't believe the number of bored women, quite a few of them who are married, who come onto me. Some get turned on by the fact that I'm the hired muscle, as they see it; others because I carry a gun, for fucks sake. Some of the other guys I know in this line of work take all they can get, but that's not me.

I can tell that one of the women is just enjoying the view, but the other has that predatory look that tells me she's trying to calculate what I'm worth.

I really don't need the hassle so I stand up to leave. She smiles at her friend and goes to make her move.

"Mr Taylor! Mr Taylor… sorry to bother you, sir, but just to let you know, your Bugatti has arrived."

Dubois is panting slightly, whether it's from the heat or the excitement of the Bugatti's arrival, I can't tell.

"We have it in our secure garage. I thought you'd like to know, Mr Taylor."

"Thanks, Mr Dubois. I'll take the keys."

He hands them over and the woman's eyes light up like she's just won the state lottery.

But I make a quick exit, evading her snare. Even so, I glance over my shoulder; she looks like someone just stole her ice-cream. I can't help smiling: sometimes it's great being me.

I head back to my room and check over the arrangements for the morning. It'll be another early start but nothing to worry about on my present body-clock.

It's still dark when my alarm goes off. For a moment I reach out for Gail, then I remember where I am.

Room service leaves bagels and fresh fruit and a pot of coffee while I'm showering. Not bad: not up to Gail's standards.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and head out, dropping off the Bugatti keys with reception. I really hope I get a chance to drive it but I'm not holding my breath.

The soaring club were not thrilled at the prospect of such an early start. They pointed out that the thermals are shit at this time of day. But the boss gets what the boss wants and when money is no object, it's not surprising how many times 'no' become 'yes'. But the tow pilot is a professional: a British speed jock who's already done the prelims before I get there.

Security shouldn't be a problem: I can see anyone coming from miles around. I check out the glider for any obvious signs of tampering. I'm not expecting any trouble, but that's not the point – this is my job. At least I'm the only person who knows who the booking is for.

"Ex-Forces?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're ex-Forces, aren't you? I can always tell. Name's Benson, Mark Benson."

_Not Bond, James Bond?_

"Jason Taylor."

"So, who's the big-shot I'll be towing."

"My boss."

"You going to give me a name?"

"Sure, when you meet him."

He laughs. "Fair enough. Well, he won't be up there long: twenty minute tops. You want a coffee, Taylor?"

"Sure, that would be good."

But just as I agree to another caffeine fix, I hear the throaty roar of the Bugatti. Benson's eyes bug out so far I think they're about to dribble down his face.

I've never seen the boss look so… what's the word… happy. He walks round to open the door for Miss Steele and he looks so proud of her. It's like watching one of those cheesy chick flicks that Gail's sister likes. Fine if you're the one who's floating on air, but faintly nauseating for anyone who has to watch. But I've got to admit, they look good together.

Miss Steele is beaming at me and I can't help smiling back.

"Mr Grey, this is your tow-pilot, Mr Mark Benson."

They shake hands and talk about the pre-flight checks. I feel Miss Steele's eyes on me.

"Hello, Taylor," she murmurs shyly.

"Miss Steele."

She frowns at me and it takes me all of 0.25 seconds to figure out why.

"Ana."

She grins at me.

"He's been hell on wheels the last few days." _What the fuck made me say that? It's all that fucking happiness that's going around!_ "Glad we're here," I add lamely.

The boss calls her and she gives that glorious, mischievous smile and I know my unprofessional words are safe with her.

"See you later," she says softly and I throw her a mock salute that makes her giggle.

I head back to the parking lot. I just want to stroke the Bugatti. _Yeah, yeah, I know, but I'm a guy!_

The boss has told me to meet him back at the hotel at 10am. Reluctantly I say goodbye to the Bugatti, silently acknowledging that she's almost as beautiful as Gail, and probably nearly as much fun to ride: the throbbing engine, the long, sleek lines, the… oh, _for fucks sake!_

I drive back to the hotel feeling slightly despondent. It's way too early to call Gail. Instead I go back to my room, change into the suit and head to the breakfast lounge to have my second coffee of the day and start to read a local newspaper.

The boss is still smiling when he arrives an hour later. I can't get used to see him this damn happy. It's unnerving. I find myself hoping, really hoping, that he doesn't screw this up. I could get used to having little Miss Steele's shy smile in my day.

But first we're off to a meeting with some big-wigs from the town council. They're so desperate for Grey's business that they're climbing over themselves to polish his shoes and climb up his ass. He starts to look irritated as he listens to their sales pitch but then he's distracted by an email message. From the look on his face I'd say it's not about work. Jeez: the boss and Miss Steele are acting like a couple of teenagers!

It makes me think about Sophie. Her mom says that she's already talking about boys – she's seven, for fucks sake! If I have anything to do with it, she'll have no dates till she's graduated college. It pisses me off to acknowledge the fact I won't have anything to do with it. I'm a part-time dad; I don't see enough of my daughter.

The boss starts to wind up the meeting when I get a call on my cell. It's Gail. That's odd: she normally just texts when I'm away working so she doesn't interrupt anything. I usually call her.

The boss looks up when he hears the ringtone and frowns. I point with my chin to show him I'm going to take the call outside and he gives a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Gail, honey, you ok?"

"Oh, Jason!"

Her voice is choked and I can tell she's trying not to cry.

"Gail! What's happened? Are you ok? Gail!"

But she can't get the words out and for seconds that seem to last a lifetime, I'm holding my breath.

"Jason… I'm… I'm at the hospital."

All the blood rushes from my face and I lean against the wall.

"Tell me you're ok. Gail, please!"

"It's not me, Jason," she says, struggling to control her voice. "Leila came to the apartment…"

"Leila!"

"Yes. It was really early this morning. I'd only just got up. I heard someone in the apartment…"

I think my heart is going to stop out of sheer terror. And I wasn't there. I wasn't there.

"I was confused… I wondered if you'd come home early… but then I heard her shouting. She was screaming for Mr Grey. Just screaming and screaming and crying. She was… Jason, I've never seen anyone like that."

"What did she do?"

The words are so tight in my throat I can hardly spit them out.

"She… she had a razor. I… I don't think she would have hurt me, Jason, I really don't… but she was so out of control… when she saw me she started screaming for him again. She wouldn't believe me when I said he wasn't there. She ran through the apartment. When she saw his bed hadn't been slept in she collapsed on the floor. I thought that it was over because she was crying so hard. I… I tried to help her but she started shouting at me, saying she couldn't take it anymore… and then…"

Her words fade away.

"Gail! What did she do?!"

I hear her take a gasping breath.

"She slit her wrist."

Silence.

"Oh, god! Are you ok? She didn't hurt you, did she?"

"No, I'm fine, Jason. Just… just a little shaken… I got some gauze out of the First Aid kit…"

"Fuck, Gail! You didn't go near her again, did you?!"

"Of course I did. I was afraid she'd bleed to death. Anyway, the fight seemed to have gone out of her. She just sat on the floor. She wasn't even crying anymore. I dialled 911 and the paramedics came. I'm here at the hospital with her now. She keeps asking for him."

"I'm on my way, Gail. Just… just be careful. Don't go near her again."

"Jason, I'm fine. It's been… worrying, but she's the one who needs help – not me."

And that does it. Anger surges through me: anger at Gail for being in danger; anger at myself for not being there; and anger for the fucked up bastard, my boss, who has let this happen.

But I don't need anger: I need to take care of this. I need to be stone.

"Gail. I don't want you at that hospital. I don't want you anywhere near there. Go home now."

"But Jason…"

"Now, Gail! This isn't a fucking request! I want you home and I want you safe. I'm going to call Welch: one of his people will take you home and stay with you."

"Jason, that's not necessary…"

"Just fucking do it, Gail!"

So much for being like stone – I know I'm starting to lose it.

Her voice is quiet and hurt. "Ok."

"Don't move until Welch's man gets there."

"Ok."

"Promise me!"

"I promise."

"I'll get home as soon as I can, baby."

I want to say something that tells her how sorry I am: sorry that this has happened; sorry that I wasn't there; sorry that I shouted at her, but I can't find the words."

"Bye, Jason."

"Bye…" but she's already gone. I feel like such an enormous shit.

But the next job is to call Welch. He's as shocked as I am but immediately agrees to send Sawyer to protect Gail. I'm relieved. Luke's a good guy; I've worked with him before and I trust him.

Next I call Stephan and tell him to have the jet on stand-by for immediate e-vac. He's surprised, but doesn't ask questions, thank fuck.

The fat fuckers of Savannah are doing their best to schmooze the boss. I don't know if they're just genetically stupid or too desperate to see that they're irritating him even more. But I can't wait for them to finish their ass-licking. We need to be moving.

"Sir, we have a situation."

He sees the expression on my face and shakes off the burghers.

"What is it, Taylor?"

I take a deep breath.

"Miss Williams – Leila – she got into the apartment early this morning. Apparently she was looking for you. Gail found her… when she said that you weren't there, Miss Williams attempted to slit her wrist. Gail got her to the hospital. She's with her now. Welch is sending someone to take Gail home – I don't want her to be alone."

The boss is as white as bone.

"Fuck! Is Gail… is Mrs Jones ok?"

"She's pretty shaken up, but physically she's fine."

"Leila got into the apartment?"

"Yes, sir."

"But I changed all the security numbers."

"Yes, sir."

"Then how?"

"I don't know, sir, but I'm going to fucking find out."

"Tell Stephan to have the jet on stand-by. We're flying back now."

"Already done, sir."

"Good."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, I have to ask: have you… have you been in touch with Miss Williams lately?"

"Fuck, no! I haven't heard from her in… two, nearly three years."

I can see that a thought has occurred to him.

"But I think she stayed in touch with Susannah. I don't know: maybe she gave her the new codes?"

"No, sir. All the codes were changed again."

He shakes his head. "We'll worry about that later. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Yes, sir."

In the car on the way to Hilton Head, he calls Miss Steele.

"I have to return to Seattle. Something's come up. I am on my way to Hilton Head now. Please apologize to your mother – I can't make dinner… I have a – situation – which I have to deal with. I'll see you Friday. I'll send Taylor to collect you from the airport if I can't come myself… You, too, baby."

He hangs up and leans back in his seat, his eyes closed.

I really fucking hate him. If it weren't for his fucked up lifestyle, Gail would never have been in this danger.

I put my foot down and do 110mph all the way to the airfield. Grey doesn't say a word.

The flight back is unbearable: I don't know who is the most tense, me or Grey.

I still can't work out how Leila got into the apartment. I'm not the fucking head of security for nothing, for fucks sake. I've been over everything in my head a thousand fucking times. How did she get in? How long had she been there? What if she'd attacked Gail in her sleep? I wasn't there! I WASN'T FUCKING THERE! The thought swirls around in my head. I keep trying to tell myself that Gail is ok and that no harm came to her, but I also realise it was close. It could have gone either way.

Grey leaves me alone, which is just as well, because the way I'm feeling, I could rip his fucking head off.

Stephan has called ahead so the SUV is waiting in the private hangar at Sea-Tac. I throw our luggage into the trunk and barely wait for Grey to close his door before I'm driving like a bat out of hell.

I screech into the garage at Escala. Fuck the luggage, I'll get that later. We get in the elevator and he punches in the access code for the penthouse.

As the doors open, I see the heavy, reassuring presence of Luke Sawyer. We shake hands and I mumble Grey's name to him.

I run through the main room until I get to the staff quarters.

"Gail!"

She's sitting hunched over a coffee at the kitchen table. Her eyes are red and it's clear she's been crying again.

"Oh, baby!"

I wrap her in my arms and she lets go, weeping into my shoulder. I've never seen her like this before. Not my strong, beautiful woman. My rock. My everything.

"There was so much blood… so much…"

"Ssh, baby. You don't have to talk."

I hold her, stroking her hair. When I look up the boss is standing at the door. My expression makes it plain he's not welcome.

"I just need to see that Mrs Jones is ok."

"No, she's NOT fucking ok!" I snarl at him.

He looks taken aback but not angry.

"Jason…" Gail lays a calming hand on my arm. "I'll be ok. Thank you, Mr Grey."

"I have to ask you …about Miss Williams. Did she say why she wanted to see me? What drove her to this?"

"No, sir. The only coherent thing she said, apart from your name, was 'he's gone'. I thought at the time she meant you, but I wondered later if she meant someone else." She pauses. "She told me, before she left two years ago, she told me she was going to get married. Is that right?"

Grey nods slowly. "Yes. I haven't seen her since then. I don't know what could have precipitated this. I'm …sorry… that you've been sucked into this, Mrs Jones. Security will be tightened up – we'll find out how she got in."

_Yeah, yeah, pile the fucking guilt on my plate, Grey. I fucking KNOW security is my job. I fucked up. I know it. I fucked up._

But I can't bring myself to look at him and eventually he leaves.

I know I'm taking out my anger on him, but the truth is it's just as much my fault as his. Security is my responsibility. And because I screwed up, the woman I love could have been badly hurt. I just want to hold her and hold her and never let her go.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 – Endgame **

Gail doesn't sleep well. She thrashes about, muttering to herself. I've never heard her talk in her sleep before. The only word I can make out is "Don't".

I keep running through the security arrangements in my head. I can't work out where the weak spot is. At four in the morning I give it up and get out of bed. Gail is frowning in her sleep and hitting out with her hands. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and start working my way through the apartment again: I check every door, every window, every possible entry point except the balcony in the boss's bedroom. She'd have to be fucking Spiderwoman to have got in through there.

I see a light on in the boss's study. Someone else who can't sleep. I don't feel like talking to him, so I move back to the kitchen. But he's not in his study, he's sitting at the breakfast bar, still wearing the clothes he went soaring in. He hasn't even tried to sleep.

I start to back out of the kitchen but I hear his low voice.

"Is Gail alright?"

I sigh. Ok, let's do this.

"No, not really."

"I'm sorry, Taylor. I have _no idea_ what Leila was doing here. I haven't spoken to her since she left. I couldn't have guessed that she'd do this…"

"Couldn't you?"

"What do you mean?"

But I don't need to answer because he gets it. "You think I made her as fucked up as I am."

I walk away, because if I say anything now, one of us is going to really regret it.

In the morning we're all tired and edgy. The alarm engineer arrives at 8am to check all the systems but I already know there's nothing wrong with them.

I check the CCTV for the millionth time, but there's no sign of Leila in the garage or in the foyer. It's as if she just flew up to the thirtieth floor. I have my suspicions about one of the fire exits but there's no sign of a forced entry and I know for a fact that the boss doesn't give out keys to anyone. But just for my own piece of mind, I tape a small piece of cotton over the door to each fire escape. If anyone tries to enter, I'll know about it.

_I really fucking hate shutting the stable door after the horse has fucking bolted._

The boss is only just holding it together. The hospital administration is being difficult about updating us on Leila's condition as none of us are related to her. And then things get worse.

"She fucking what?!"

Half of Seattle can probably hear the boss yelling.

"How? I thought we had eyes on her 24/7?"

He listens intently but my heart sinks. I can guess what's happened: Leila left the hospital. She's missing.

I watch him pacing up and down the main room.

"Will you be going into work today, sir?"

He turns abruptly. "Yes. Work. Twenty minutes, Taylor."

After I drop him off, I park the SUV and head straight to my office to call a meeting of all security staff. There's a frisson of excitement: I've never done this before at Grey House.

"Gentlemen… and Miss Johnson. We have a situation that you need to be aware of. This woman, Leila Williams…" I flash up her photograph on the wall, "has a personal grudge against Mr Grey. She attempted to enter his home yesterday but injured herself in the process." _No need to give them all the gory details_. "She has absconded the hospital but is deemed to be a high level threat. Nobody, and I mean nobody, gets into Grey House without clearance through one of you. I don't care if it's a fucking pizza delivery boy with a blind monkey on his grandmother's bicycle: no-one, gentlemen, no-one gets into Grey House without being vetted first. Any questions?"

"Mr Taylor, sir. Who is she? I heard that Mr Grey had a girlfriend… is she…?"

"We only know that she's a random woman who has fixated on him. Anything else? Then back to work, people."

I make sure they're all jumping like frogs on a hotplate then head back to the apartment. I don't like leaving Gail alone.

Welch has arranged for another driver to pick up Grey from work. No way I'm going to leave Gail by herself – even for an hour.

"Really, Jason. You don't need to fuss – I'm _fine_."

"Well _I _won't be fine until we find Miss Williams… and then I'll wring her scrawny fucking neck!"

Gail smiles weakly. But that's an improvement.

By the evening there's still no sign of Leila and it's time for me to collect Miss Steele from the airport. The boss wants to be around if there's any news but he won't entrust Miss Steele to anyone else but me. Perhaps I should be flattered. I'm not.

I get to Sea-Tac in good time. For something to do I have the staff make up a sign that says 'Miss A. Steele'. _Yeah, I'm a funny guy_.

Her flight is announced and after a short wait I see her walking out into the arrivals hall. As usual, she's got her eyes fixed on the floor. When she finally looks up, she smiles.

"Hello, Taylor."

"Miss Steele."

"I do know what you look like, Taylor. I don't need a board… and I do wish you'd call me Ana."

I don't like being informal with anyone to do with the boss, but she's so sweet, I can't say no to her.

"Ana. Can I take your bags, please?"

"No, I can manage, thank you."

_Oh, for fucks sake! Give me the damn bags so there's actually some point to my fucking existence!_

"But, if you'd be more comfortable taking them…" she stammers.

_Halle-fucking-lujah!_

"Thank you. This way, ma'am."

I hear her sigh and inside I'm smiling. She doesn't give up.

I open the door for her and stow her small case in the trunk. The rush hour traffic is slow and I'm eager to get back.

"How's Christian, Taylor?"

Her soft voice interrupts my musings.

"Mr Grey is preoccupied, Miss Steele."

"Preoccupied?"

I meet her anxious gaze in the rear-view mirror.

"Yes, ma'am."

I can tell she wants me to say more, but this is Grey's shit, and it's up to him how much he tells her.

"Is he okay?"

Poor kid. She really does care about the fucked up bastard. I want to tell her to run while she still can.

"I believe so, ma'am."

She sighs. "Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, okay," she says softly.

Eventually she asks me to put on some music, 'something soothing'. I choose Pachabel's Canon, a personal favorite, and soon we're both lost in our thoughts as I steadily follow the lines of cars and trucks heading into the city.

It takes 25 minutes to get back to Escala. I can't help smiling at her as I open the car door.

"I'll bring up your luggage."

"Thank you for meeting me."

"It's a pleasure, Miss Steele." _It really is._

I don't know it yet, but the next time I see her things will be very different.

Gail is in the kitchen, staring out of the window. I didn't realise I was walking particularly quietly, but when she looks up she jumps and holds her hand to her heart.

"Oh, Jason! I didn't hear you."

A sob escapes her and I scoop her into my arms.

"Oh, baby. I hate to see you like this."

We stand there, locked together, until her breathing calms.

"Are you packed?"

She nods.

"Sure you don't want me to drive you?"

"No, Mr Grey needs you. And Mr Welch said he'd call you later. I'll be fine at Allison's. I just… I just need to get away from here for a while."

_Away from all this fucked up shit. Away from me?_

I walk her down to the garage and put her luggage in the trunk. "Call me when you get there."

"It could be quite late."

"I don't care, baby. Just call me. I need to know you've arrived safely."

I don't give her a chance to argue; I sweep her into my arms and kiss her hard, letting her know how much she means to me, holding on tight until she pushes on my arms.

"Jason, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

I watch her drive out and feel like a little piece of happiness has just dropped out of my life. I know she'll be back on Sunday evening but, fuck, I'll miss that woman.

I go back to my office and check through the CCTV footage one more time. There's nothing to report.

I watch some dumb zombie film on TV until my eyelids feel like small people are stamping on them. Gail sends me a text message to say she's arrived, but she doesn't call. I guess she doesn't want to speak to me. I can't blame her.

I drag my weary carcass into bed. It's too empty without Gail and with everything that's happened in the last 48 hours, my brain is too busy to allow me to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time. At some point in the night I hear the boss playing the piano.

I seriously think about shooting the bastard, but that might upset Miss Steele.

Around 7am, I take a shower. When I look in the mirror, I realise I'm beginning to resemble one of those damn zombies: bloodshot eyes – check; drawn, haggard face – check; snazzy charcoal suit – oh, wait, that's just me.

I head into the main room – and really wish I hadn't.

Miss Steele is standing there, looking like she wants to audition for the same zombie film. It's obvious she's been crying and she's walking kind of awkwardly. It hits me.

_That fucker! That lousy fucker! He's done it! He's actually fucking done it! He's hit her! I know it! I fucking know it! He's beaten the shit out of her! She can't even fucking walk properly!_

I'm so angry, I can barely breathe. I know I should leave the room, but I stand there, my fists balled by my sides. It takes every bit of control, every bit of training I've ever had from stopping myself doing anything Grey would seriously regret.

I watch, frozen, as she lays out her BlackBerry, car key and laptop on the bar. I realise then that she's leaving him. Finally, the girl has come to her senses.

But the look on the boss's face shakes me to my core: he can't believe what he's seeing. He looks desperate.

"Ana! I don't want those things. They're yours! Please, take them."

"No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance – and I don't want them anymore."

"Ana, be reasonable…"

_As if that twisted fucker would recognise 'reasonable'._

"I don't want anything that will remind me of you."

The kid stands her ground. She tells him all she wants is the money I got for her Beetle. I'm kind of surprised the boss hasn't already given it to her. It's not like he needs the interest on it.

"Taylor got a good price," he tells her, twisting the truth ever so fucking slightly. "It's a classic car. You can ask him." He catches my eye. "He'll take you home."

"That's fine. I can get myself home, thank you."

Poor kid. She really wants nothing from him – nothing of him. I wonder how I'd feel if Gail ever spoke to me like that. The thought makes me shudder.

"Are you going to defy me at every turn?" His voice is low but furious. Once again the girl stands her ground. _She is one fucking brave kid_.

"Why change a habit of a lifetime."

"Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home."

I've never heard the boss beg before. I don't think _God_ has heard the boss beg before.

"I'll get the car, Miss Steele."

I can't bear the tension in the room anymore. And Miss Steele needs a ride.

She exits the elevator alone and I can tell she's only just holding it together. I open the door for her and she gets in, blank and wordless.

I head out onto 4th Avenue and she still hasn't spoken. She's trying hard not to cry but tears start to run down her face. At a stoplight I pass her my handkerchief.

"Thank you," she gasps, then the floodgates open. She's crying like her young heart is breaking and I just can't bear it.

For only the third time in my life, I want to seriously hurt someone. The first time was when my bastard of a father hit my mom, and I tried to rip his head off; I was 14. The second time was in Afghan, and I don't like to remember that. But the third time is right now: I want to hurt Grey as badly as this girl is hurting.

Rage pulses through me. Am I going to let him get away with this? How many more women are going to be broken on his rack? How many more Leilas? How many more Anas? How many times will Gail be put in danger because of his fucked up lifestyle. No. It stops here. It stops now, at least for me.

When I get back, I'm giving my notice – and for Gail, too. I won't have her exposed to this fucked-upedness anymore.

When I help Miss Steele out of the car, she can't speak. She can't look at me. She just shakes her head when I ask if she'd like me to see her up. I watch her struggle to get her key out of her purse, her blue eyes blurred with tears. The glass door closes behind her and I see her fall to her knees. I think about staying to help her, but I know she wouldn't want that.

"Goodbye, Miss Steele," I say softly.

I drive back too fast. I want to run up the stairs because the elevator seems so slow, but I don't. I need to calm my breathing. I need to get back in control, give my notice, pack up my shit – and get the fuck out.

But when the elevator doors open, I don't do any of those things. Grey is sitting on the floor next to the elevator, his head in his hands. He looks up when he hears me – and I see a broken man.

Maybe it was his own stupidity… maybe it was his own fucked up, twisted fault… I don't know. But suddenly all I see is a broken man, a drowning man, a good man who made a mistake. A man who had love – and threw it away.

"I've taken Miss Steele home, sir."

He stares at me like he doesn't understand the words, then nods very slowly.

"Thank you, Taylor."

He looks down, almost puzzled, as if he can't understand why he's on the floor. He stands up slowly and walks away, his hands jammed into his pockets, his head hanging down.

It's as if I can hear the sound of his heart splintering.


	21. Chapter 21

**I just wanted to say a huge thank you to all of you for reading, for the hundreds and hundreds of great comments and reviews you've sent me. Every single one has been read and appreciated – and those in French and Spanish, too. Your support has been so important to me. **

**I hope you enjoy this extra long chapter that covers the end of 'Fifty Shades of Grey' and the start of 'Fifty Shades Darker'.**

**Thank you.**

**9/11 Never Forgotten**

**Book II**

Chapter 21 – The Well of Loneliness

**Day One – Saturday **

I feel so fucking useless.

Give me a target, give me something I can aim at, give me an armed insurgent with a Texas-sized death wish, _give me something tangible that I can wrap my hands around and choke the living fuck out of – give me SOMETHING I CAN DO._

Instead I go to my office and work through the usual protocols: check CCTV; check the alarms on entrances and exits _again_; check Welch's daily status report. Nothing to raise my pulse let alone provide a distraction.

Welch has been running down some leads on Leila Williams but there's still no news. The best lead was the other sub, Susannah Bergen, but she's been traced to her parents in San Luis Obispo. With nothing else to go on, all I can do is increase security. Welch has been briefed by Sawyer; Luke is on stand-by 24/7.

The apartment is quiet. I realise I've gotten used to having Ana Steele around. There's always happy, upbeat music when she's here; the sound of laughter and life. She's so full of life… she _was_ so full of life. A pulse of anger surges through me and I think back to how broken she was when I dropped her off at her home earlier today.

But she's not the only one: the boss is in pieces. As long as I've known him, over four years now, I've never seen him like this. He has two coping mechanisms for dealing with bad days: fucking his subs bandy-legged or taking to the gym and making Bastille earn his money by beating the crap out of him. Kind of ironic, when you think about it.

Right now he's doing neither. It makes me nervous. My job is based on predicting the unpredictable. No easy thing around the boss, but I've recognised certain patterns, certain likely responses to situations. But this is a new situation and I have _no clue_ how he's going to respond.

I decide to stroll by his study and make sure he's not speed-dialling rent-a-sub.

He's bent over his desk, ignoring the fucking spectacular view of Seattle at his feet. I used to think he got off on seeing all the little people running around in their small lives below. But I realised long ago that I was wrong about that. He likes it up here _because _he's so far away from all that seething humanity: he can see it, but it can't touch him and he remains invisible in his eerie fucking eyrie.

I'm surprised to see that he's not poring over the kind of miniscule columns of numbers that would make most normal men go blind. Instead he's got the plans for some sort of model airplane spread out.

Now that _really_ freaks me out because the boss is so not a model airplane kind of guy. Yeah, so, like most kids I used to make Airfix models of tanks and shit like that but any grown man who spends hours doing that – well, I don't get it – unless it's sniffing the glue that gets them through the pointless fucking torture.

But the boss is counting out pieces of balsa wood and using glass-headed pins to attach the balsa to the plans.

I've seen some weird shit in this apartment but, other than the stuffed horse's head the boss used to keep on his pillow, this is the _freakiest shit ever!_ Okay, so I exaggerated about the horse's head but you get where I'm coming from.

He's a grown man for crying out loud! Well, sort of.

But as I get closer, it all makes a twisted sort of sense: it's not just any old model airplane – it's a model of a glider. Specifically a Blanik L-23. The glider that the boss flew in with Miss Steele.

She bought him a gift.

The little Co-ed with student debts bought the billionaire a toy airplane because it was the one way she could show him that she loved him.

And I feel so bad for her and bad for him, too. Hell, I'm so damn miserable I feel bad for myself and seriously consider ransacking Gail's collection of show tunes to cheer myself up. Okay, maybe I'm not that desperate – not yet.

I watch for a few more moments, noting his total absorption, and back up out of his study.

Someone who didn't know how that fucked up brain of his works might think he looked peaceful: I know that mad fucker better than anyone, and I can guarantee that his brain is whirling around like an ice-skater on acid. The only thing that's missing is the tutu.

What would I do in his situation? What I would do if Gail decided to walk out of my life forever? The thought chills me because last night she promised she'd call once she got to her sister's but then she only sent me a text. I may just be a humble guy, and not much given to introspection, but even I know that when your woman doesn't want to speak to you, things ain't looking so hot.

I can't blame her: she's been through some intense shit herself, courtesy of our boss who's just won Mr Fucked-up USA for the fourth year running. And she doesn't want to talk to me. _Why?_ Is it because she sees me as part of all this craziness? We met here, we work here, we live here. Hell, we've lived with a dozen subs and watched him fuck them all into submission. What does that say about our view of life? I know it's always made Gail uncomfortable but she maintains that the boss is a good man. I'd qualify that to say good, but severely fucked up. We have a term for that in the Marines: FUBAR – fucked up beyond all recognition. Could have been coined for Grey.

I wander back to my office and surf the internet for suitable high schools for Sophie. Yeah, yeah, I know she's only seven but I just want to know what sort of schools there are in her area: never too early to put her name down for a good school.

And then a stray thought finds its way into the empty cavern that used to be called my brain: if I put Sophie in a good school, the _best_ sort of school – it'll be because Grey is paying for it. I mean, I haven't been a complete dope: I've saved up a considerable chunk since I've worked for the generous fucker, but if I left his employment, that would all end. And my savings wouldn't cover another 11 years of school plus college fees. Not if I planned on keeping up eating as one of my favorite hobbies.

It's a sour thought: would I even want to stay with Grey for – fuck – 14 or 15 more years? What else would I do with myself? I can fix the rocker box of a leaky Triumph bike or JB weld a leaky primer cover, but neither of those skills is going to pay for my daughter's college education. So the obvious choice is to stay in private security – unless I want to re-enlist and get my ass shot off in Afghan again.

Which leads me to another thorny problem: Gail. I don't mean that Gail is a problem, hell no! Gail is Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and a Dream Girl all rolled into one and totally fuckable, just for the record (I may have mentioned that before), but she really isn't keen on the whole he-wears-a-gun-to-work scenario. I have my suspicions that her continual refusal to marry me has something to do with that. _Or maybe she's just not that into you, Taylor_.

Naw, that can't be the reason. I may not be the smartest thing on two hind legs, but that woman is _totally _into me. And let's face it, although modesty is my middle name, I've seen the way her girlfriends look at me _and they're not checking out the Gucci label in my jacket_. Even her bitch of a sister Allison, isn't quite as immune as she pretends. I've seen her checking out my ass when she thought no-one was looking.

But then a more sobering thought occurs: maybe I'm just good enough to keep Gail's bed warm, but not good enough to marry.

Fuck! This is getting me nowhere – the boss's fucked-upedness is contagious. I _have _to speak to Gail. Now.

I pull out my phone and dial. It immediately goes to voicemail. Shit! She really _doesn't _want to talk to me.

I don't leave a message.

Instead I decide to call Sophie.

"Hello, Palmer residence."

_I fucking hate that my daughter doesn't use my surname_.

"Hey, Princess! It's daddy!"

"Hi daddy! Are you coming to see me? Because I'm going out now. Miranda is having a birthday party and it's going to be totally cool! We're going to eat pizza and do each other's hair. Do you want to come, daddy? Oh, but you haven't got any hair, have you?"

She giggles and my heart sighs.

"Still packing a full head of hair, baby girl!"

"Yes, but it's too short, daddy. I can't braid it or anything."

"No, baby. You'll have to braid mommy's hair."

"I can braid Steve's – his hair is quite long."

I grip the phone tighter.

"Who's Steve?"

"He's mommy's friend and he… oh, mommy says I have to go now. Bye, daddy!"

"Bye, Princ…"

Then the Bitch takes over.

"What are you doing, Jason?"

"Talking to _my_ daughter."

"Why were you pumping her for information about Steve? It's none of your damn business who I see!"

I'm so furious that I'm grinding my teeth. Thank fuck Grey pays for dental.

"I'm not _pumping _her for information, for fuck's sake. She mentioned his name – that's all! I don't see why I shouldn't know if some limp-dicked fucker is hanging around _my_ daughter!"

Okay, so staying calm isn't working.

"Don't swear, Jason."

_That's not the fucking point!_

"Who's 'Steve'?"

"A friend."

"What sort of 'friend'?"

"Bye, Jason."

"What? No!"

But the Bitch cuts me off.

At least I have something to do now: find out who the fuck this Steve character is – then cut him off at the knees.

Just then the calendar on my phone beeps reminding me that the boss is supposed to be going to the gala night at the Seattle Opera. As he was planning on going with Miss Steele I'm kind of assuming that he won't want me to be his date. Pity: it was Andrea Bocelli singing Rigoletto.

Feeling a rise of blood pressure after that conversation with the Bitch (Best in Show, six years running), I wander over to the boss's study. I'm about to knock when I hear his phone ring. I wish I could say it was Miss Steele calling but it's not her ringtone. The boss has programmed his cell with 'Martha's Harbour' – just for her and no-one else.

He must have it on speaker-phone because I can hear the caller as well as Grey's replies.

"What do you want, Elena?"

_Jeez, that scary-assed Wife of Frankenstein. The theme from Jaws should be her ring-tone._

"Oh, Christian. Don't be so petulant. I just phoned to see how you got on in Saratoga."

"Savannah."

"Whatever."

_Pause._

"Well? Did you find your little _girlfriend_ as adorable as ever?"

"Fuck off, Elena."

"Oh! It went that well? What happened? Didn't she appreciate the _enormous_ effort of you flying all that way after all?"

_Pause_.

"Georgia was… great."

"Don't go into acting, darling! I can tell by your voice! Honestly, Christian, I know you better than you know yourself. Tell me what happened. Did you take my advice? Did you show her… who you really are? It's only fair that she knows the real you before… before you do anything foolish."

_That fucking bitch! _

"It wasn't like that, Elena."

"Well, what was it like? I'm waiting."

"Yes. I showed her what I'm really like."

"And? Could she take it?"

"No."

"Well? What did she do?"

"She left me."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised, Christian. That's what happens if you go and get involved with someone who's not into the scene. Really, what were you thinking? Did you really expect some 21 year old _child_ to just adapt to you like that?"

"I did: and I was only 15, if you remember."

_Fuck! He was only 15? Why is he still talking to that fucking pedophile? This is so fucked up! Do his parents know? No, I can't believe the doc would let that whore in her house if she knew the truth!_

"Yes, but it was so _you_, wasn't it, Christian? What you needed. The truth is Anastasia couldn't give you what you need, what you crave. Let me get onto Christine and I'll sort out a suitable…"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want another sub."

"Why ever not?"

"I want… I want Ana."

"Don't be childish, Christian. She left you. She's made it quite clear where _her_ loyalties lie. Look, I'll come over and we can talk all this through. I'll…"

"No. I don't want you to come over, Elena, and I don't want to talk it through with you. Last time I talked it through with you, you told me to show Ana who I really was. And that got me exactly fucking nowhere."

"Christian, you're being unreasonable. Let's talk about this."

"Don't come here, Elena, because I won't be here."

He ends the call abruptly and I hear a thud as he drops his cell back on his desk. Then he sits with his head in his hands and he's so still. _Major fucking meltdown!_

Eventually he sits up and I start to breathe again: he goes back to his painstaking work on that dumb glider. Except it's not so dumb: it was Ana's gift – her last gift.

I give a quiet knock on the door.

"Yes," he says softly. Not his usual snarl. _Fuck. He's off his game big time_.

"Sir, the gala tonight."

"Oh, that. I won't be going, Taylor. Have the tickets. Take Gail."

"She's at her sister's, sir."

He looks up, puzzled.

"Oh. Yes, of course."

"Are you planning on going out tonight, sir?"

"No. And I don't want any visitors. No-one. Not even my family. Especially not them."

"Sir."

I sit in my office and watch the sun set slowly in the west. The boss is still in his study. He hasn't taken any calls, he hasn't made any calls, he hasn't drunk anything, he hasn't eaten anything: he just sits in his study making that glider, piece by piece by piece.

If only it was so easy to put his life back together.

**Day Two – Sunday **

I don't sleep well. The bed is too big without Gail. I miss the smell of her hair on my pillow. She smells like honey, sweet and strong. I miss the moment her eyes open when the first thing she does is smile at me. I miss the way she stretches her body around mind and we have slow, gentle wake-up sex. I miss the way she makes me laugh with just an expression. I miss the way she pours that fucking beautiful body into a sexy, pencil skirt and white shirt. I miss her food. I miss her jokes – even when they're at my expense. I miss the ways she fills the space in my days.

And I have morning wood the size of a thousand year old oak tree and no-one at hand to sort it out. Sometimes life really sucks.

Then, of course, next door I have the King of Pain whose laugh-a-minute, breezy view of life has me reaching for the razor blades before I've had a shit, shower and a shave.

I decide to forego the shower and shave in case the boss is up for a run. But when I see him, I'm pretty fucking shocked. I can't be sure, but I'd say he hasn't fucking moved _all night_. He's still sitting at his desk, still piecing together that damn model glider.

"Sir?"

He glances up. His eyes look almost black in the early morning light: his expression makes me shiver. The lights are on, but there's nobody home.

"Are you going running this morning, sir?"

"Morning?" He looks bemused, then stares out of the window as if he can't believe the sun has decided to rise again. He looks down at his wristwatch and repeats, "morning?"

"Yes, sir. It's 6am."

"No. I won't be running today. Thank you, Taylor."

_Thank you? He never thanks me! Fuck! He must be ill!_

I wonder if I should call the doc but think better of it. He said he didn't want to see his family. Can't say I blame him: they're like the Waltons on dope, there's so much love going around.

I head back to the staff quarters to take that postponed shower and to get something for breakfast. I'm no Mario Batali but living with Seattle's answer to Martha Stewart (before her… er… financial problems), I've picked up a few things. I wonder if I should make something for the boss, but decide it would be way too _cosy_ cooking for the fucker. I can however, agree with myself to make him a cup of coffee. I make damn fine coffee, though I say it myself.

So I head on back to the study where that damn model is still in more pieces than Madonna's underwear, and which I'm beginning to think of as some sort of Sisyphean task (yeah, yeah, I graduated high school – what of it?), and slap a mug of joe down in front of him.

He looks up and blinks. _Yeah, I'm shocked too, boss. Just sharing the love_.

"Coffee," I say, stating the blindingly fucking obvious.

He nods and I have a strong suspicion that the fucker is laughing at me. Okay, when I say 'laughing' I really mean, straining his facial muscles in a way that might almost constitute a grimace but which, in his fifty shades of fucked-upedness, is probably a manly grin. Whatever. It's an acknowledgement of my culinary prowess. _Oh, yes._

So, with abso-fucking-lutely nothing on the agenda for the day, I run through the same old checks. But there's fuck-all on the CCTV, not even car sex with that guy in apartment six who acts like a buck private with a 48 hour pass and his girlfriend's best friend.

Pity. Cause there's nothing on TV either.

Still nothing new from Welch. Still no trace of Miss Williams. She's a smart cookie. I never particularly warmed to her: she was always watching; always poking her nose into things that didn't concern her. I caught her in my office once. She said she was looking for scissors but that answer _didn't cut it with me_. See what I did there? Yeah, I'm a funny guy.

But she's giving Welch a run for his money and I don't like it. If he can't find her with all his contacts, it means she's getting help from somewhere. Or someone. And that makes me fucking nervous. If she got in here once _and I still have no fucking idea how she did that_, then she can do it again.

My cell rings, saving me from the appalling idea of spending another day of sheer monotony with my own merry thoughts.

It's the light of my life.

"Hey, baby! I've been trying to call you."

"I know. I'm sorry, darling. I just needed… some space."

My heart beats a little harder. _Space from me?_

"Are you coming home tonight?"

She sighs and I feel like every drop of blood in my body has just turned to dust.

"Yes, I'll be home about 7pm."

And I live again.

"Have you… have you found Miss Williams?"

I'd really like to fucking lie. But I can't: not to her.

"No, baby. Welch is still looking, but she hasn't been back here."

"Well… that's something. How was Miss Steele after her flight?"

_Oh, fuck._

"Jason?"

_How the fuck am I going to handle this one?_

"Has something happened to Miss Steele? Is she ok?"

"I think she's ok."

_Yeah, that's a reasonably truthful response. Or possibly an outright lie. It probably depends on your point of view_.

"What happened?"

_He beat the shit out of her and she cried enough tears to sink The Mighty Mo and then she left._

"I guess they had some kind of fight. She left."

"Oh. Well, that doesn't sound too bad: they're always fighting. I think it's one of the things that he loves about her – that she stands up to him."

"Hmm."

"What do you mean 'hmm'? What aren't you telling me, Jason?"

_Why is that woman so damned perceptive?_

"She was crying. A lot. She… didn't look so good."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be back."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Sure she'll be back."

"Why do you say that?"

I sigh. _Truth or dare?_ I go for truth.

"Because when she went she left her laptop, cell phone and car keys. She told him she didn't want anything that reminded her of him."

"Oh no! Oh, Jason, no! Poor Mr Grey! How is he?"

_Fucked up. _

"He hasn't said much."

"He never does. What's he doing? Has he eaten?"

"No, he hasn't eaten. And he's making a model airplane that Ana gave him."

"A model airplane? Oh… And he hasn't eaten at all?"

"Nope. Not unless he licked the plates keen and put them back in the cupboard."

"I'm coming home."

"What?"

"I'm leaving now, Jason. I'll see you at 1pm."

"I… ok. See you later."

She hangs up.

_Fuck_. She'll come home six hours earlier than she'd planned _for him_.

Jealousy as strong as acid burns in my throat. Irrational, unreasonable, but I can't help it. I know she's just being… Gail… the mother hen… but it really, seriously pisses me off.

I think about heading down to the gym to work off some of my irritation, but as I walk past the boss's study I glance in. He's _still_ fucking sitting there, _still_ working on that damn model. Jeez, I'd give a pint of blood just to hear him pounding some wrist-slitting music on his fucking Steinway. But no, he sits there, his full concentration on that little bundle of paper, glue and balsa wood. _Why is it so fucking important to him?_

I know why: because it's all he's got left of her. That, and a photograph from her graduation that he uses as his screensaver – the picture where she looks like Bambi caught in the headlights of a ten ton truck. I know from experience that you can't cuddle up to a photograph. Trust me, I've tried.

At least he's drunk the damn coffee I made for him.

At 12.45pm my face creases into something my mom used to call a smile: Gail is back.

The elevator doors slide open. She's wearing jeans that hug that delicious ass and a T-shirt that makes me want to rip it off her.

"How is he?"

_What? Fuck!_ She wants to know about _him_.

"Still sitting in his study; still making that damn model."

"Has he eaten?"

"Nope."

"You didn't make him anything?"

"I made him a coffee!"

"For goodness sake, Jason!"

She bustles off, leaving me wanting to punch something.

I go back to my office, too angry to breathe straight.

Twenty minutes later the mouth-watering aroma of Gail's tomato and basil sauce is wafting through the apartment. She walks past my office carrying a bowl of pasta. _Past my office_.

I can't hear the words, but she's talking to him like he's a small child, or a wounded animal. Well, I guess he's kind of both. Me, I'm just pissed and hungry.

I wander into the staff quarters and wait for her to return. When she does, she doesn't meet my gaze.

_Shit! This doesn't look good_.

"Gail… is everything ok?"

She takes a deep breath. I think about running.

"No. Not really. Mr Grey looks terrible… he barely seemed to know where he was. Have you called his parents?"

Now I know she's deliberately avoiding my _real_ question. She knows I'd never call the boss's folks unless it looked like he was pegging out. Which he isn't.

"Gail – I asked if _you're_ ok?"

"I… I don't like being here."

_Fuck_.

"I keep thinking… about that poor girl."

_Okay, it's about Leila. Stay cool_.

"Welch is looking for her. He'll find her."

"And…"

_Uh-oh – there's more?_

"And with all the security we have here… she still got in. I… I just don't feel _safe_ here anymore."

_Fuck! Is she blaming me? Shit. She _should_ blame me._

She drops her gaze. Even with me here and she doesn't feel safe. No wonder she didn't want to come back: last time she was here some mad bitch was standing over her with a razorblade.

"Baby, I'm so sorry. I'll do anything to stop you feeling like this. Anything."

"Jason?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Will you just hold me?"

And the world stops turning while I hold my precious girl.

**Day Three – Monday **

Last night Gail clung to me in a way she never has before. Despite her fears about being back in this pit of despair, she said I made her feel safe.

_I made her feel safe. Thank God._

The boss is up, washed, shaved and dressed to kick some ass. But he hasn't slept either and he's hardly spoken. In fact the only words he's said to me this morning, were an instruction to get a glass display cabinet for the fucking model glider. Which he finished, at some point before playing music-to-slit-your-wrists by at 4am, and screaming out in his nightmares until my ears began to bleed at 4.45am.

As we exit the elevator of Grey House at 6am, the only other people in the building are security staff.

Gail is going to be pissed that we both left without having breakfast but I couldn't bring myself to wake her. She didn't sleep well either.

Anyway, I bought subs for me and the boss, so no harm, no foul.

The security officer on the thirtieth floor gives me a discreet nod.

A buddy of mine used to work at this big time art museum in New York City. The security guards on the night shift used to spend most of their hours sleeping. Up until the time robbers decided to lift Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers' but got stopped because they'd parked in a tow-zone. A rookie cop found them. Inside the van, they found blueprints of the building's layout and a couple of shotguns. But when they tried to speak to the security staff, they couldn't find anyone awake. After that there was a major shake-up. Personally I'd have paid them to take that piece of shit painting. Too much yellow.

That security lapse would never happen at Grey House. All the staff… all _my _staff know that their fucking lives depend on doing their jobs properly. No-one sleeps the night shift. Apart from anything else, they never know when Grey is going to be prowling the corridors like some ginger-haired Hound of the Baskervilles.

I head for my office while the boss places his precious glider on his desk and waits for the world to fall at his feet. Despite this, I know for a fact that there's only one conquest he cares about today, and she's across town starting her new job. At least, I hope she is. I hope _she _wasn't home all weekend gluing pieces of balsa wood and paper together in the belief that mending one thing, will mend another.

And secondly, I hope she's starting her new job because the boss is in play to buy the company. Unless, of course, he changes his mind. He never seemed very interested in publishing before. But who knows what tortured musings go on in that fucked up cranial cavity that passes for a brain. _Why, Jason Taylor – you're coming over all poetic. That's me: rhymes and roses every time._

Andrea arrives at 7.45am and spends 15 minutes fixing her face in the ladies room. Same ritual every stinking day_. I don't need 15 minutes to be as suave and good-looking as I already am._ But nature is rarely fucking fair.

Olivia trots in at 8.05am. She's five minutes late and Andrea gives her a look that would freeze a solar flare.

At 8.30am I organise a quick catch-up with all security staff as they change from night- to day-shift. I remind them that Leila is still a perceived threat and tell them to check _everyone_ going in and out. Everyone must display a valid security badge and I want spot-checks on those, too.

All visitors, even if it's the fucking Queen Mother has to be vetted (especially her, as she's been dead quite a while now). Every visitor is to have their photo taken which is then checked against the FBI's facial recognition software. No exceptions.

The rest of the morning passes quietly until Ros comes to figure out what's up with Grey.

"Come on, Taylor. Spill. Pleeease don't tell me he's _still_ got woman trouble?!"

"You'd know more about that than me, Ros."

"Don't be so fucking funny or my tits will fall off."

"Whatever grooves your truffle, Ros."

She growls something unprintable that rhymes with Lamar Hunt and heads back to her office.

I'm sure glad she's batting for the other team: it would be terrifying having her on the loose in Seattle. No man would be safe. Jeez, how does Gwen put up with her? I mean, she's kinda nice. Nothing like old copper-drawers.

Yup, I do enjoy a bit of verbal sparring with Ms Bailey.

Next up for the Taylor treatment is Andrea. She's noticed a change of demeanour in the boss, as well. For a start, Olivia isn't the usual quivering wreck.

"I got a call from PR because _they _got a call from Seattle Opera. They wanted to know why Mr Grey hadn't turned up for the gala. I guess they're worried that their number one patron is begging off. Fess up, Taylor. What's cooking?"

_Why do all these women come to me? Yeah, yeah, I just live with the guy – it's not like I'm going to have his babies._

"It's all under control, Andrea. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Yeah, and a flying fucking pig just shit on your shoes, Taylor. What the fuck is going on?"

_She's such a nice, sweet-tempered girl._

It's a good thing I don't approve of gambling, liquor or strong language, because my poker face would bankrupt me going up against the ice queen.

"A security situation."

"Bullshit! He looks like his best friend just died – except he hasn't gone any friends. And what about this Miss Steele he was supposed to go to the gala with? What happened to her? Was she the one he was seen with at that WSUV graduation ceremony? Is it something to do with her?"

Well, it's the boss's fault that Andrea is getting so close to the truth: he didn't hire any dumb staff, that's for sure. I just stare at her.

"You know he ordered flowers. Two dozen white roses. Dictated a message and everything. Melanie from the florists phoned me to check it wasn't a hoax and that it was really him. I guess he was apologising for something, right? Guys only send flowers when they've done something they're sorry for."

I stare back and her eyes widen.

"You're shitting me! She dumped him? _She _dumped _him?!_"

Andrea doesn't just _leap_ to conclusions, she fucking triple salchows to them.

"I didn't say that."

"Wow! She dumped him! I bet that never happened before. Apart from the fact I always thought he was gay anyway. Wow!"

"I didn't say…"

But she's already out the door.

I hold my head in my hands but it's not my day for an introspective wallow.

"Hey, Taylor!"

Barney wanders into my office. He could be looking for the meaning of life: or possibly just the way to his desk. It's hard to tell.

"I was thinking, we should put in an argon fire suppression system in the server room, it'll be at least 38% more effective than our standard foam and water combo."

He's got my attention.

"Tell me more."

I spend an interesting and informative half hour having the benefits of argon explained to me. It's a relief to have a normal conversation. I decide it's worth the $4,200,000 cost to install at all GEH properties across the US. The boss will need to approve it but I'm pretty certain he'll like what he sees.

"Go ahead and prep a report for the boss. It looks like a sound investment."

"Will do, Mr T. By the way, what's up with the boss? He hasn't yelled at me even once today."

_Nope. The boss didn't hire any turkeys._

**Day Four – Tuesday **

I feel like I'm living in Groundhog Day. Gail is still having nightmares, the boss is still showing Hugo Wolf the real meaning of insanity, putting the misery in misericordiae and in between that fucking piano and screaming through his nightmares, _I'm _about ready to run off screaming.

For the first time in several days the boss wants to go for a run. Gail thinks that's a good sign: that, and the fact that he seems to be eating normally again. I'm not so sure: what if he runs under a fucking truck?

He spent yesterday evening pacing up and down the main room at Escala. I saw him check his phone a dozen times. I got the impression that he was hoping, _expecting_ even, that Miss Steele would call him.

I know he hasn't been into the whole 'girlfriend' thing that long – and I'm not counting the subs – but if he really thinks some flowers are going to bring her running back after what he did to her, he's got a lot to learn. But I reckon that's _exactly _what he thought. And he doesn't understand why it hasn't worked. _Join the club, Romeo: women never do what you think they should do_.

"You're going to have to talk to him, Jason."

Gail's lips are moving and sound is coming out but it makes no fucking sense. I had been looking forward to good old fashioned eggs and bacon and a quiet coffee for breakfast but now I sense that we'll be having _a conversation_.

"Talk to who about what?"

Gail shakes her head and looks at me as if I've forgotten how to tie my shoe laces or zip my fly. I look down: nope, everything's in place.

"About Miss Steele!"

Now I'm really confused. That one brain cell is feeling pretty lonely up there. At least, that's how Gail is making me feel.

Then the light dawns. _Holy fuck!_

"Let me get this straight, Gail. You want _me_ to talk to _the boss_ about _Miss Steele?!_"

She nods.

"And then after he fires me and kicks my sweet ass through the door, then what?"

She rolls her eyes.

"And what would I say to him anyways? Hey, bud, you know if you want girls to like you, it's not a good idea to beat the shit out of them _after_ fucking them till they can't cross their legs."

"Jason!"

"Well, come on! Firstly, it's none of my business; secondly, it's none of _your _business; and thirdly, what makes you think he'd listen to me anyway?"

I think I might have gone too far because she gets that look on her face that would scare my old platoon sergeant into shitting his shorts.

"Well, firstly," she says, all sarcastic, like she's ticking it off on her fingers, "it _is _your business because you're the closest thing he's got to a friend; secondly it _is_ my business because I've worked for him for four years, I _like _him and believe he's a good man; and thirdly, actually, I can't think of a third reason, but you really should talk to him."

"Firstly," I say, smirking back at her, "the only person he listens to is Dr Flynn and sometimes his mother; secondly, he's got an appointment with the great shrink today; and thirdly, his mom scares me."

"Aw, Jason, honey. Are you trying to tell me that a big, badass ex-Marine is scared of a lil ole paediatrician from Detroit?"

"Yup."

She sighs.

"Look, babe, I know you mean well and that you want to fix this for the boss, but you've just got to accept that you can't. You can't fix him and you can't fix Miss Steele. He's sent her flowers – she hasn't responded. You know how stubborn women… er… _some_ women can be."

I grind to a halt, aware that I'm just opening my mouth to change feet.

Gail raises an eyebrow but she doesn't leave me wriggling on the hook. Not today.

"So he's seeing Dr Flynn?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad about that. At least he's talking to someone. I half expected that _dreadful_ woman to be round fixing him up with a new submissive."

"She tried."

"No! Really? When was that? What happened?"

"She phoned on Saturday. The boss was on speaker phone so I heard it all. You know what? She sounded like she was _pleased_ that Ana had done a runner. She couldn't wait to fix him up with a new sub. Practically offered to come round and interview them herself."

I deliberately leave out the bit where I found out that she was the bitch who got the boss into all this BDSM shit _when he was 15_. If I told Gail that, she'd either be on the phone to the police or round to Mrs Lincoln's lair to tear her limb from limb. I wouldn't like to put money on who'd win that one. Gail would have sheer fucking rage on her side, but the Lincoln bitch has probably got an arsenal of whips and blunt objects in her panties drawer.

_I really don't want to dwell on that image_. That cold-hearted troll gives me the shivers.

"Ugh! I _can't bear_ that woman! She's just so… ugh!"

Words fail her, which is really saying something. I happen to know Gail was a straight A student.

We're interrupted when the boss taps on our door. I really hope he didn't overhear that conversation. But he looks so deep in thought, I'm not sure he'd notice a grizzly bear dancing the polka on First Avenue. Then again, polkas are a bit cheerful for the boss.

We head out across town. The boss's pace is slower than usual and his gait isn't as loose as usual. He's obviously not into the run; usually he gets pretty competitive with me but today he's some other place and from the expression on his face, I'm guessing it's not somewhere happy.

Part of me wonders if maybe another woman – another submissive – _would_ help him get over Ana Steele. But then again, does anyone ever _get over_ their first love? I mean, sure, we move on because we have to, because life forces us to carry on; but most of get abused by love while we're still in our teens and we're young enough to believe that life will be a bed of roses now we've got enough manure to do a good job. But the boss is 27 – nearly 28 – and I'm pretty fucking certain that he's never been in love before. That's from four years of too fucking close observation, along with the Cadillac-size hints that Elliot used to drop. Mia, too.

Miss Steele certainly wasn't his first fuck, but she was his first love.

We make it back to Escala with only minimal damage (the boss ran into the path of a Mini Cooper – injury was slight: it was parked at the time).

Then time to get suited, booted and beautiful before a visit to the chief headshrinker.

Flynn's a pretty ok guy, for a Brit. Uses a lot of long words when one will do, but he won't let the boss bullshit either.

They're in there a fucking long time. I've watched penicillin grow at a faster speed. I trawl through every magazine in the waiting room. Who knew 'Horse and Hound' was such a racy read?

When the boss comes out he looks… calm. I don't know what Flynn said to him, but the guy is a fucking witchdoctor. I'm definitely going to him when working for Grey makes me a complete fucking basket case. In fact, I could do with a session right now. I wonder how much he charges?

At Grey House, my ass is barely in my seat when I get a private conference call from Welch.

"Taylor. Welch here. We've had a sighting of the Williams woman. We think she was seen on some CCTV camera outside Grey House. We're cleaning up the image now, just to be sure. If it was her, she was making sure that she kept her face away from the cameras. In all probability, she's still in the area. If she _has _left, it wasn't in her own car or by plane and she hasn't used her credit card to buy any train tickets. In fact, she hasn't used her credit card at all. How do you want to play it Taylor?"

"Eyes on the outside of Grey House 24/7 and outside of Escala."

"What about other GEH properties?"

And then I make one of the biggest fucking mistakes of my life.

"No, I don't think that'll be necessary. She seems to be targeting places where she knows she'll see the boss. She's smart enough to know he rarely visits the other business locations. Just get your guys to do daily sweeps of _The Grace_: it's probably the most exposed location."

"Ok. I'll leave it to you to tell Grey."

"Gee, thanks, Welch. All the best jobs."

"Kiss my ass, Taylor."

"I'd rather chew off a badger's scrotum. Over and out."

I'm really not looking forward to giving the boss all this good news: the poor bastard is on a fucking Titanic of misery – and I just can't face being the one to tell him that there are icebergs ahead.

**Day Five – Wednesday **

I'm so worried about Mr Grey. He looks terrible: so sad all the time. And he's not sleeping at all. Three times I've got as far as dialling his mother but I don't know what I'd say to her. Jason is right: it's really not my business – except that it is.

I've worked for this man for four years and I really do care about him. Jason does, too, of course, except he won't admit it. He pretends that he stays for the pay, or for me, but he's fond of Mr Grey, too.

We're only his staff, but he treats us with respect and consideration. He trusts us with his secrets and he's never lied to us: he's always been completely frank about his unhappy predilections.

I was so happy when he met Miss Steele: we both were and Jason absolutely adores her. She's so sweet and cheeky and cheerful. She's like sunshine wrapped up in a person. If I'd ever had children, she's the kind of girl I'd have wanted for a daughter. And it was obvious to anyone who saw them together that she was head over heels in love with Mr Grey, and he with her. I can't tell you what a joy it was to see him so happy.

He had such a difficult start in life. I suspect Jason knows more than he tells me, whether or not that's to protect me or Mr Grey, I'm not sure. He said once something about the quality of Mr Grey's nightmares reminding him about being in Afghanistan. He clammed up after that, but I guessed it was to do with what he'd seen over there. Well, it's obvious to _me_ that it's a form of post traumatic stress disorder.

Dr Flynn has, no doubt, been working on that. No doubt. But the best therapy was definitely Miss Steele. She brought joy into his life when he never seemed to think he deserved any. So ridiculous, but that's men for you: stubborn as the day they were born.

I'm still not comfortable being back at Escala. I _hate_ being in the apartment by myself. I haven't told Taylor, but I've taken to asking Frank the doorman to see me inside – just to make sure there's nobody lurking. Frank is taking his escort duties very seriously – probably a little _too _seriously if I'm honest. But I can put up with his clumsy flirtation a lot better than seeing Leila Williams with a razorblade in her hand again.

I keep remembering her staring at me with those empty eyes just before she opened a vein. Oh, God. There was so much blood. But those eyes… that's what scared me the most – because I knew that she believed she had nothing left to live for.

I really don't know how we're going to get through the rest of the week. Mr Grey has his mother's fundraiser dinner-dance to go to on Saturday. And there are all those pretty dresses in Miss Steele's wardrobe. I can't bear to ask Mr Grey what he wants me to do with them. Perhaps he's forgotten about them. Well, that's hardly likely: he never forgets anything. Except to sleep, sometimes.

I hope Miss Grey doesn't ask him too many questions. She's a sweet girl, but my goodness, she can talk. And I fear if she starts asking about Miss Steele, there'll be more than fireworks going off. Which is something else I have to worry about. Poor Jason _hates_ fireworks. The reason is obvious: he's been in one too many close fire-fights when he did his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He doesn't like to talk about it: not to me. Sometimes he goes out for a drink or three with his Marine buddies and he talks to _them_. I wish he could talk to me but I suppose it's only something that you can explain to someone who's been there and seen it: walked a mile in his shoes, so to speak.

At least Luke Sawyer is going with him to the dinner-dance. They seem to get on well, which is quite unusual for Jason. Normally he gets very territorial over his security duties. Men.

I wonder if Mr Grey will be up to going over the menus for the next few days. Probably not. I'll just choose some of his favorites. He adores my macaroni and cheese. I think he finds it comforting. Dr Trevelyan told me once that it was one of the first meals she gave him when he went to live with her. I can just imagine him as an adorable little copper-haired boy. He's still adorable, of course, and my goodness, women certainly throw themselves at him. But he's got a temper, as well. That I can attest to, although he's never shouted at me. And I hope he never does. If nothing else, Jason would make him regret it.

The thought makes me smile.

When my first husband died, I didn't think I'd find love again. I certainly didn't think I'd find it with a younger man. I am a very lucky woman. I know the last week has been hard for Jason: he feels so guilty that Miss Williams got into the apartment, but I don't blame him. I really don't.

I've found it a difficult time and I've rather taken it out on him. I need to let him know that I don't blame him – that I still love him. And I've got something in mind.

The phone rings, shaking me out of my increasingly erotic reverie.

"Hey, babe!"

"Jason, is everything ok?"

"Sure, everything is good."

"Oh? What's happened?"

"The boss has just told me he wants Charlie Tango to fly up to Portland tomorrow evening."

"Oh, so he won't want supper."

"Nope. But that's not the good bit."

"Jason, you really do like to draw things out!"

"You're the only woman who draws things out of me, baby."

"Yes, well, I've been thinking about that. Are you free tonight?"

"I wasn't thinking of charging you, baby!"

"Very funny, Jason."

"But I forgot the good news…"

"There's more?"

"Yes, the boss is taking Miss Steele to Portland with him."

"Really? Truly?"

"Really truly."

And I have the biggest smile on my face.

_Oh, thank fuck for that!_


	22. Chapter 22 The Invisible Man

Chapter 22 – The Invisible Man

I wake up with a smile on my face. Hell, my whole body is smiling from the inside out. And in recognition of my good mood, I poke Gail in the back with an erection that makes the Empire State Building look like a toothpick – oh yes.

"Jason," she says with her eyes still closed, "I'd have been quite happy with 'Good morning' as a wake-up call. Tea in bed is also traditional."

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back towards my chest.

"No tea? No breakfast in bed? Jason!"

_Oh no, baby! I'm going to make a meal of you!_

Although I say it myself, it's been a very satisfactory start to the day… and I didn't have to wait till my birthday for a blowjob. My woman is singing to herself as she makes breakfast. Damn, I'm a lucky man.

And even though the boss has more money than the Federal Reserve and more snappy suits than an alligator in Savile Row, I'm not sure I'd call him 'lucky'. But, if he plays his cards right, and manages not to fuck up again, he might just get lucky tonight. Or not.

The poor sucker (woah, did I mis-speak myself?)… the poor fucker has to get through a nine-hour work day first – and so do I.

The acquisition of SIP is going ahead. I'm not sure the boss has thought this through, how Miss Steele is going to react to him being her boss, or, technically, her boss's boss's boss. Experience of women in general, and Miss Steele in particular, tells me that's going to be a case of light the blue touch paper, retreat to a safe distance, bury your head between your legs, and kiss your ass goodbye.

Like I said, I really don't think he's thought it through.

And I don't know whether it's his need to keep her in his life in one way or another, his need to protect her, or his desire to keep his pretty, shiny toy to himself that is driving him on this one. Yeah, yeah, it's good business: and he's one scary fucking Easter Bunny.

The drive to work is uneventful and despite the increased vigilance, there's still no sign of the Williams woman. Her continuing ability to evade all attempts to find her makes me nervous. I've changed the route of our morning run every day, avoiding all the usual places and Andrea is guarding the boss's diary and appointments more closely than Hillary Clinton's underwear.

Other than that, it's business as usual and he's working on a deal to buy a shipyard in Taiwan that's going to put the 'sick' in Min Keh-sik, and make the Boston Tea Party look like a Sunday school outing.

And here's the thing: I've seen the boss blow off multi-million dollar deals because some instinct told him to walk; I've seen him lose more on stock market fluctuations than is in the entire Bank of Bolivia; I've seen him turn down two famous movie actresses, one of whom looked like she could fuck an entire football team bow-legged and make a contortionist blush, (and at least one famous actor, who isn't so much in the closet as hiding in an entire fucking furniture store); I've seen him… well, you get the picture. But I've never seen him this jittery.

It's 1730 and it's time for him to pay or play. We're on our way to collect one Anastasia Steele from her place of work (which will be the boss's place of work as of Monday, not that the poor kid knows it yet). I _really _hope he doesn't fuck it up. I can't stand another week of playing hunt-the-sense-of-humor.

As I drive through the building traffic I can see him in the rear view mirror. I've seen that look before – just not on him. If he doesn't get her to give him another chance, there won't be much of him left to care. Saying the atmosphere is tense is like saying the Titanic had a small leak.

I pull up outside SIP and suddenly we're at DEFCON 1 – nuclear war is imminent. The reason? The sleazoid Jack Hyde is seeing Ana to the door. The boss swears so badly my ears nearly melt. _Yeah, a nice intimate chat with the woman he loves, coming right up._

I step out of the car to open the door for Miss Steele and Hyde's eyes lock on mine. He's trying to work out where he's seen me before and then he realises I'm here for Miss Steele. He checks out the SUV and he looks like he's just had to chew on duckweed and had his new toy taken off of him – which he has.

_Suck it up, dickless. _

I wait for Miss Steele to acknowledge me but her eyes are wide with what looks a lot like fear as she stares into the car. I wonder what the fuck she's seen and half turn, my hand moving towards my gun. The boss is glaring at her – I mean, fucking glaring at her like he's caught her French-kissing Sarah Palin. _What is his fucking problem?_

And then I get it: it's clear that Miss Steele has lost _a lot _of weight during the last five days. Well, what the fuck did he expect? What the fuck does he want? Can't he see that the poor kid is crazy about him (or does he need Spock to do a Vulcan mind-meld)?

I want to slam my head into the steering wheel and inhale the airbag when he says to her,

"When did you last eat?"

_For fuck's sake! He even managed to screw up 'hello'!_

Nope, I want to slam _his_ head into the steering wheel until he sees stars, then kick his damn ass all the way to Boston and back.

But her response makes me smile, in a completely face-non-moving sort of way.

"Hello, Christian. Yes, it's nice to see you, too."

Does he take the hint? Does he sweep her into his arms and promise to shower her with petals and fuck her into rose-tinted oblivion with a chocolate dildo? That would be too poetic for Mr I'm-fifty-kinds-of-moron-with-a-broomstick-up-my-Harvard-educated-ass.

"I don't want your smart mouth now. Answer me."

She swallows and looks nervous. Hell, who wouldn't, when the human equivalent of Old Faithful is getting ready to blow (and not in a good way).

"Um… I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh – and a banana."

I start praying to Jesus, Mary and Joseph that he takes his foot out of his mouth before he swallows it.

"When did you last have a real meal?"

Nope. A two-foot case of indigestion. Next time I'll try Jehovah: go for the big guns.

I start the engine and try to ignore the replay of the Bay of Pigs in the backseat. _Yeah, right_.

That prick Hyde is waving. _Fucking moron is waving at tinted windows – what a douche canoe._

Although, the boss is giving him a run for his money.

"Who's that?"

"My boss."

_Yeah, great. Find another way to piss off the love of your life. I could pass an opinion but frankly I'd rather just sit here and pass wind._

"Well, your last meal?"

_Change the fucking topic, you ginger-haired Britney!_

Finally she caves.

"Pasta alla vongole, last Friday."

The boss has finally gotten his answer and for a moment it takes him right back to those broken pieces of a human being that I saw last Saturday when she walked out on him.

_Has learning taken place yet, Grey? Because you're in the last chance saloon and your saddle horse just died of loneliness in the one-horse town that you call a life._

He begs her to eat. _Begging is good! Women love it when you beg_.

"_Oh, Gail! Give it to me, baby! Go tell it to the Marines, baby!"_

"How are you?"

_Thank fuck! _Finally a proper question that might actually lead to one of those old fashioned things they used to call a conversation.

She looks at her hands then manages to speak. Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.

"If I told you I was fine, I'd be lying."

She doesn't look fine. Her pretty face is almost gaunt, her eyes haunted with memories that I wouldn't want anywhere near my skull, and I've seen some fucking bad shit in my time.

"Me, too," he says softly. "I miss you."

I feel like fucking cheering and throwing tickertape and taking Gail backwards on a hostess trolley food cart. I'm so damn happy that he's managed to express an emotion that is real for once.

Then he holds her hand.

_Hallelujah! _

She hesitates: it's make or break. Jesus – I'm holding my fucking breath and I'm the damn driver. If we crash now, Gail would have my ass. Well, she's had it several times already, but that's a bedtime story that's definitely NC-17.

"Ana, please. We need to talk."

_No! I'm screaming in my head! KISS HER! KISS HER!_ In a totally heterosexual way, of course.

Christ, if he doesn't kiss her soon, I'm going to give him Gail's copy of _Ninety Days of Genivieve _and tell him to read the chapter called 'The Stallion' AGAIN!

Finally, finally he pulls her onto his lap, kisses her hair and tells her he's missed her. I begin to breathe again.

_Who knew he could behave like a human being?_

When I get to the helipad in the city, things are looking good for the boss, but he's not out of the woods yet. He's still got plenty of time to fuck it up.

I open the door for Miss Steele and she slides out, smiling this cute little shy smile that for some bizarre reason reminds me of Sophie.

"I should give you back your handkerchief."

She's just so damn sweet – at least she knows what she's getting herself into with Grey. This time. She's stronger than she looks – I just hope she's strong enough to take all his crazy shit. I think she is.

"Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes."

_Yeah, I'm smooth. Watch, learn, and take notes, Grey._

And she blushes. Damn, she's cute.

The boss is eyeballing me but I ain't sayin' shit, no suh. He knows there's no point in asking me. Silent as the grave, me.

"Nine?" he says.

"Yes, sir."

I watch them as the boss leads Miss Steele into the building. They're holding hands and the heat that's coming off them is enough to solve New York's power shortages. That'll be one helluva elevator ride.

Stephan comes out of the lobby and gets in the passenger door.

"How you doing, T?"

"Good. You?"

"Yeah. And how's the delicious and delightful Mrs Jones?"

"You'll never know, Stephan, and if you mention her name again your fillings will be getting to know what daylight looks like." _Fucking fly-boy_.

He reclines the seat and makes himself comfortable. Jeez, is he expecting sandwiches and light refreshments?

"So, what's up with Grey? I hear he's got _a girlfriend_. Is that right? Because I always thought he was a camp counsellor."

"Is that what you heard? I thought you were speaking from experience, being a _flight attendant_."

"Ah, fuck you, Taylor!"

"You're not my type."

"Seriously, is it true? About the girlfriend?"

"Why are you so interested?"

He shrugs. "He's not a bad guy. I always kinda felt sorry for him, that's all."

No, the boss isn't a bad guy, just a walking, talking, fucking disaster of a human being.

I don't answer so he knows it's time to change the subject. Stephan was out in Iraq in '05 so we shoot the breeze about fond memories of sand flies and crotch rot.

When we get to Portland I drop him off at the helipad so he can pilot Charlie Tango back to Boeing Field.

"See ya, T. Don't take any wooden nickels!"

"I don't know but it's been said, air force wings are made of lead."

I pull away before he can answer, but my lip reading is pretty good. What rhymes with 'duck stew'?

My BlackBerry rings and I hear the boss's dulcet tones.

"We're at Le Picotin. Southwest Third Avenue."

_What? I haven't got time to hit the head? _Jeez, I've just driven the best part of 180 miles. Guess I'll have to stick in a bottle.

Luckily, I drive past a MacDonalds and avail myself of the facilities. I'm lovin' it.

I text the boss and wait outside this nice looking restaurant. Now I've got the location in the SatNav, I'm thinking intimate dinner a deux with the delectable Mrs Jones. I'm still working on the whole concept of her being Mrs Taylor, but I'm a patient man. And if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. And I do love doing Mrs Jones.

_Shit! Mind on the job, Taylor!_ The boss wants to talk to me. What now?

But when he tells me that he needs some private time with Miss Steele, I get the picture. I've got to be the invisible man: deaf, dumb and blind but somehow able to steer the SUV with three of my five senses out of use. _Yeah, and Minnie Mouse does it doggy-style with Pluto_.

Fine. I'll play Puccini. I choose _La fanciulla del West_ for Miss Steele. Now that's what you call a sense of humor. I've got my ear buds in but the music is coming through the car's sound system and not through my iPod. Too dangerous. I've got to be able to hear the car's engine. And as for people who go jogging or cycling listening to music, that's just damn crazy. Don't they _want_ to hear that eight-wheeler coming up behind them? Scary shit. Grey has hired me to be _his _eyes and ears. He may have fooled Miss Steele but he knows that _I know_ that he knows. We go through the whole charade of me pretending I can't hear him, all to give Miss Steele an illusion of privacy. There isn't any, of course, and if she wants a part of Grey, she'll have to get used to it. He has no secrets from me. Not really. Don't get me wrong, he's a real private guy, but when you've had verifiable threats on your life twice, and your bank account is bigger than Texas, well, you need people around you 24/7. I'm his people. Simple. He's got a determined expression on his face; I sure hope Miss Steele managed to have a glass of wine in that fancy schmancy restaurant. If not, there's a bottle of Tequila Gold in the trunk. It's a present for Gail's brother-in-law. I chose it specially: Gail's sister, Allison, hates tequila. I'm thoughtful like that. Then Grey drags me back to the here and now in a way that is going to give me flashbacks for decades when he says, "Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?" _Jesus H Christ on a stick! Did he just say that? I nearly crashed the fucking car!_ Miss Steele looks as shocked as I am and that's saying something. And I wasn't a virgin less than a month ago. I really, _really_ wish I couldn't hear any more. The kid blushes the color of his hair and gives it to him, but good. "Fundamentally, Christian, it's your joy in inflicting pain on me that's difficult for me to handle." _You tell him, kid!_ I notice I'm getting a bit heavy-footed and ease up on the gas, slowing to a nice, leisurely 95mph. I'm not worried about getting busted: no cop likes to write up an ex-forces guy. My attention is pulled back to the episode of _Peyton Place_ going on in the back seat. The boss has completely caved. He's agreed to no whips, canes or belts, no heavy shit at all, and – this is what rocks my socks – _no rules_! I mean, this guy _loves _his rules. He's fucking heavy petting when it comes to his rules, Control-Freak-and-Weirdo extrordinaire. Completely caved. Given it up. Laid it on the floor. Fucking ridden over it in a Sherman tank. For her. A little co-ed from Montesano. And you know what? This dumb-ass billionaire, who doesn't have the sense of a seam squirrel when it comes to women, has done something smart in his oh-so lonely life. He's taken a chance. On love. That's a warm and fuzzy feeling for a cold night. Fuck me. 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23: A Woman of Substance

I know I can't expect Jason to be home for at least another hour but even so I can't help listening out for the sound of the elevator, his footsteps in the hall.

Ever since that horrible incident with Leila, I haven't liked being in the apartment by myself and I certainly don't want to go to sleep with the place so empty. It's not like me to be anxious: I know it upsets Jason and I'm trying hard not to show it around him. He feels so bad that she got in, and that it all happened while he was away.

They still haven't found her, despite Mr Grey's vast resources and the combined expertise of Jason and Mr Welch's team. I wouldn't say I was close to Leila when she used to come to Escala, but she was a sweet girl: bright and curious. Not hard and brittle like some of the others. Perhaps that's why she lasted longer than most of them – in some ways she was like Miss Steele. But only in some ways. Jason thought she was manipulative and completely obsessed with Mr Grey. I guess he was right after all. I hope he doesn't remember the bet we took on that… or maybe I do.

I was so glad when Mr Grey found a normal girlfriend: he was so different with her. He was just… happy. There's no other word for it, except maybe 'in love'. He introduced her to his family for a start and I had hopes for more – much more. I really want tonight to work out – for both of them. It would be awful if he went back to that cold, emotionless, stunted way of life. And, ugh, that Lincoln woman. I do _not _understand why Mr Grey is friends with her. She really is unpleasant and I know for a fact that she was somehow involved in recruiting Mr Grey's submissives. Do you know what she called her chain of beauty salons? Esclava. Sounds pretty, doesn't it? But if you'd bothered to look up what it means, you'd know that it's Spanish for 'female slave'. Oh, yes, she's got a sense of humor: a very twisted, unpleasant sense of humor. Horrible, vile woman.

If Mr Grey went back to his old ways, I don't think I could take it – I don't think Jason could either. He's terribly fond of Miss Steele, although he won't admit that either.

But there was something so special about Anastasia: she brought Mr Grey to life and when she left… well, it was awful. Just terrible to see him so broken. But… she's given him a second chance. Jason was just as pleased as I was when he heard that they were heading down to Portland together to some art exhibition. He pretended not to be, of course, but that's men for you – always thinking that they have to hide their emotions. Not that Jason can fool me.

I understand his reasons for wanting to stay as detached and unemotional as possible when it comes to Mr Grey. Jason says that close protection workers need to maintain some distance to keep their edge. He says that getting too close to the client affects his professional judgement. Well, that ship has sailed, in my opinion: he can pretend all he likes that this is just another job, but I know better. He uses humor as a way of deflecting the truth from what he's really thinking and my goodness, his language is something else! It's nothing I haven't heard before but I'm just glad he manages to restrain himself in front of Sophie. Mostly. But when he's with me, in bed, I see the real Jason: he's stripped bare, and I don't just mean of clothes, although that by itself is a delicious image. What I mean is: he doesn't hide who he is deep down. I love the way he gives me all of himself. I know he keeps work things hidden from me, things that he'll think will upset me, but he never hides himself, who he is. I always know exactly where I am with Jason.

And he still wants to marry me. I'm sure he thinks that one day he'll just wear me down and I'll give in, but we have things to resolve between us. But we're getting closer, I think.

Finally, I hear the sounds I've been longing to hear.

I look up from the sofa and across the room Jason is smiling at me.

"Hey, baby."

He looks tired. Well, that's hardly surprising; he's driven nearly 350 miles tonight and he was up early as usual.

"Are you hungry, darling? Can I get you something to eat?"

He shakes his head.

"Not really. I wouldn't mind a beer. Maybe a sandwich?"

I can't help smiling: 'not really' means 'yes, but I don't want to look like I'm demanding you leap up and bring me food'.

"Oh, well, it's a good thing I made this chicken salad sandwich for you then, isn't it?"

"God, I love you, Mrs Jones! I'm a damn lucky man."

"Yes, you are. And don't you forget it. But tell me, how did it go with Mr Grey and Miss Steele?"

He smiles and my anxiety slips a few notches.

"Well, it was touch and go. If there was anyone who was more likely to screw it up than the boss… but she's going to give him another chance."

I can't help sighing with relief.

"Thank goodness for that! Did you leave him at Miss Steele's apartment?"

"Nope: we dropped her off and came back here – I guess he wants to, I don't know, take it slow. But he gave her back the laptop and cell phone, and he's seeing her tomorrow. I'll take her car back then. Although I don't think he's mentioned that bit to her yet."

"Yes, she was always rather unhappy with his super generous gifts."

"Yeah, I don't want to be around when he mentions the car. If I am, I'll just yell 'incoming' and hit the deck."

He frowns.

"Jason! What aren't you telling me?"

"Huh? Nothing, it's just she's having drinks after work with her boss – that Jack Hyde character I told you about. Cold-eyed fucking bastard."

"I bet Mr Grey didn't like that!"

"You could say that. I thought he was going to rip the guy's throat out when he saw him with Ana when I picked her up from work. I'd have had to have stopped him – and I know how much you hate washing blood out of my suits."

"How very magnanimous of you."

"Oh, baby! I love it when you use long words. It makes me horny."

_Hmm, I'll have to add that to the list of things that makes Jason horny: it's quite a long list_.

"Well, you know what they say, darling: cunnilingus is a real tongue twister."

For the first time in several nights, six nights, to be exact, I'm not woken up by the boss playing that fucking maudlin shit on the piano.

Even so, I can't sleep. Gail is lying beside me looking so damn beautiful that I want to reach out and touch her just to make sure she's real. But I don't want to wake her so I just lie on my side staring at her.

Eventually I decide to go and make myself a coffee even though it's still an hour before dawn. There's something nagging at me; some thought at the back of my brain that won't shake free – something I've forgotten. It's bugging the fuck out of me. _How did Leila Williams get back into the apartment?_ It's as if the answer is there, if I can just pull it out of my memory.

So I head to my office and review the security footage _again_.

_What is it? What the fuck have I missed?_

Jeez, I'm getting as OCD as the boss. I'll be counting the number of times I say 'fuck' in a day next. His fifty shades of fucked up must be rubbing off on me. _One. _Next thing you know I'll be firing champagne fucking corks from my ass. _Two. _Ok, I don't actually have proof that the boss has done that, but I've seen his playroom. It features regularly in my nightmares, along with the Olympic female wrestling team and a set of anal plugs (extra large). That's a fucking horror story waiting to happen. _Three. _And if I start thinking that listening to music from _La Traviata_ is going to cheer me up, I'll know it's time to volunteer for that frontal lobotomy after all. I wonder if the boss's medical insurance will cover it?

The truth is I've got all that shit from last night running through my head. All the boss's horror stories from his fucked up childhood. _Four. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! Five. Six. Seven. _I'd guessed at most of it – it's hard not to when the evidence is all over his body and I've heard those screams in the night too many times – but hearing him tell someone other than his shrink, that was hard to hear. I can't understand how someone could do that fucked up shit to a kid. _Eight. _If anyone touched Sophie like that, I'd kill them. I'd hunt them down and tear their fucking eyeballs out – and I'd enjoy it._ Nine_. _FUCK! Enough with the fucking counting or I'll have to take my socks off! Ten._ Oh, wait… _Eleven._

I can't say this dark shit to Gail, she'd totally freak out. She already thinks I'm a few shingles short of a roof. Maybe that's why she won't marry me. And, what's really scary, maybe this is why I can work for the boss: I know what it's like to have experienced horror. Show me a man – or woman – who's done tours in the Middle East that hasn't. You lock that shit away from normal humans. I used to think that the old me died over there… then I met Gail. But the boss – that fucked up shit happened to him when he was a kid. You don't ever get over that: you can get on with your life, but you don't ever get over it.

Miss Steele is taking on one fucking challenge with Grey. I've seen the way women look at him. Hell, I've seen the way some men look at him. I've had women coming up to me giving me their cell numbers, hoping that I'll pass on the information to the boss (and I'm not saying I'm an egotistical guy, but that's gonna hurt). One even embroidered her number on her panties. I couldn't bring myself to give them to the boss… It took me a while to explain that one to Gail. But the make-up sex later was worth it. I had nail marks down my back that even made the boss look twice. Maybe it was just professional interest but I swear he nearly cracked a smile. Yup, gotta lotta tiger in my woman.

The CCTV footage reveals nothing new. Another two hours of looking at the black-and-white tapes I feel like I've pulled my brain out through my nostrils and reinserted through my eyeballs. It's a bit like watching re-runs of _Dora the Explorer _with Sophie_. _I think the Ancient Egyptians used to do something like that – the weird brain shit, not Dora the Explorer. Yeah, well, no wonder it took them so long to invent the wheel.

I'm pondering on the weirdness that is my life when I hear a noise behind me and spin round, reaching for a gun I'm not wearing. _Fuck!_ My heart rate is going fast enough to make a speed-freak dizzy.

"Anything to report, Taylor?"

_I'm going to have put a bell round his neck if he's going to start creeping around like that._

"No, sir."

"Five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

See that? Not a word wasted. That's what I call guy talk.

I head back into the staff quarters and pull on sweats and sneakers.

You know one of the things I love about Gail? She irons my sweat pants. I know it's dumb and pointless and completely unnecessary and, let's face, if you ever meet a guy who irons his sweats he probably also has curtains that coordinate with his throw cushions, but I love it that Gail cares enough to do it for me. I think I love it _because _it's pointless: it's my gal looking after me. Not like The Bitch: her idea of looking after me was making sure that my best friend's bed stayed warm while I was in Afghan.

Gail is just waking up; it's a beautiful sight. It makes me want to muss her hair even more and remind her why she called me Marco Polo last night.

But I don't have time. Fuck, that sucks. And I'm a poet and didn't know it: yup, I'm just your all round Renaissance guy.

Soon, I'm pounding the streets of Seattle, hyper-aware that my Korth is keeping my ribs warm. I know the boss doesn't approve, not that I give a shit, but I know that Gail hates it, too. And that I _do_ care about. But asking me to leave it behind, especially while the Williams woman is on the loose, would be like asking me to take on Mia Grey without body armor.

Oh hell.

My sunny personality takes a dive when I remember I'll be seeing Mia the Diva on Saturday – with fireworks. I wonder if the Grey's have a foxhole in the garden.

Just bury me now.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 – The Long Weekend 

The boss is in love.

We have a word for that in the military:SUSFU.

What? You don't know that one? Seriously? How long have you been reading my autobiography? Fine. Fine, seeing as you have to ask, it stands for – _situation unchanged: still fucked up__._

It comes in handy around the boss.

It was a different story on Wednesday, the night of the big reunion. And, by the way, the boss and Miss Steele still haven't had any make-up sex, which I totally don't get, because that's the best thing about having an argument. Jeez, I love arguing with Gail because when we make-up, all bets are off, and there's that thing she does with her… well… yeah.

So, back to the boss last Thursday.

He didn't know if the woman of his dreams was going to stay an apparition, or whether she'd swallow her better judgement and let Mr Control-Freak-with-unmentionable-tendencies back into her life.

He was so tense, I had my tin hat ready for the moment he snapped. It was like driving a bomb-disposal expert on the way to defuse an IED, except the fucking bomb was in the car, twitching away on the backseat.

And while I'm thinking about it, why do limeys – sorry, Brits, as we're standing shoulder-to-shoulder – why do Brits call their bomb-disposal guys ATOs? I mean, come on! Ammunition Technical Officer? Sounds like some desk jockey who hands out the rounds of ammo, not the guy with balls the size of watermelons who takes the lonely walk to defuse a bomb?

Yeah, I'm going off track again. It was thinking about that R-rated make-up sex with Gail. Puts a man off his stride.

So, I'm driving the boss and wondering if I should have Flynn on speed-dial. And I'm thinking if the boss's anxiety levels stay that high, he'll be chewing on his $400 manicure. Hey, I know about these things: I'm a New Man.

Well, that evening, the boss's story had a happy ending. It was hard to believe that the man I'd driven out, Mr Ticking-time-bomb, was the same one who sat with his sleeping woman in his arms for two hours on the ride back. He looked like he'd found a small slice of heaven. Yeah, I get that.

Now if I could just figure out how that Williams woman got into the Escala apartment, I'd be happy guy, too. I might even go crazy and, I don't know, smile. Except that would freak-out Sawyer: he's the sensitive type.

So, Friday evening, I have the pleasure of driving the boss to pick up Miss Steele from work, or, in fact, from a bar called 'Fiftys'…

Were you waiting for some rich seam of sarcasm? Some inappropriate jest at the expense of my FUBARed boss (you're going to have to look that one up for yourself, unless, of course, you're the sensitive kind, too, in which case it would probably be best if you stop reading now).

So, I pick them up and Grey opens the door for Miss Steele. She's got that look on her face like she's trying not to laugh at him. Jeez, I love that look. _Fuck! What's with all this 'love' crap?_ I'm turning into a fucking cheerleader. Mind you, you'd better believe I have the pompoms to prove it. Oh fuck. Did I really just say that? Paging Dr Flynn – I need a new job.

Ok, well, getting back to the intrepid Miss Steele, she says,

"Why did that feel like a pissing contest?"

You know, I'm really not sure about these potty-mouthed women. And you were wondering how come I've been led astray all these years. I was a choir boy once. Fucking A!

Ana is such a cute kid, I can't help smiling at her in the rearview mirror. And you know what, it doesn't suck. I kinda like smiling. Who knew?

And for once my sense of sarcasm is safely in control. He's happy, she's happy: jeez, if there was any more joy going around the cops would be stopping us for having loud smiles in a built-up area.

The boss barely acknowledges my presence like he's almost forgotten I'm here: his eyeballs are only for Miss Steele. And suddenly I'm really hoping he remembers that this car doesn't drive itself because watching my boss get it on with Miss Cute-and-Flirty is not my idea of a fun Friday night. Call me old-fashioned.

"What would you like to do this evening?" he says.

Woah! Did I just have an auditory hallucination? He asked her what _she_ wanted to do? Stop the fucking press.

"I thought you said we had plans."

"Oh, I know what I want to do, Anastasia. I'm asking you what you want to do."

_See, she's amazed, too: that's why he's had to spell it out for her._

Like I can't guess. Like _she_ can't guess. Hell, it's so fucking obvious he wants to work through the Karma Sutra from page one to the end, (and including all the appendices), that he may as well have me drive them to the nearest pay-by-the-hour motel.

She doesn't reply, so while they're enjoying their version of foreplay, I get the SatNav to plot the quickest route to happiness, so to speak.

I don't hear her answer: maybe it was non-verbal, because the boss says,

"I see. So… begging it is, then. Do you want to beg at my place or yours?"

You know, what's great about women like Miss Steele and Gail? They're real good at letting us guys think that we're the ones in charge. I know that Gail calls the shots, and she knows that I know that she knows that she calls the shots, but she'll let me have that guy-pride thing and pretend I'm in charge. She's thoughtful like that. Miss Steele is cut from the same cloth; maybe that's why I like her.

But she lobs it right over his head:

"I think you're being very presumptuous, Mr Grey. But by way of a change, we could go to my apartment."

_Fifteen -love to Miss Steele._

I begin to relax as the boss manages to have what passes for a normal conversation for him, until he says,

"That man Hyde wants into your panties, Anastasia."

Yep, that's my boss, who really only opens his mouth to change feet.

Next thing I know, he's threatening to fire the creepy fucker. Now, I have no problem with that, but the jerk (and now I'm talking about the boss – keep up at the back)… the jerk threatens to fire Hyde. Thus giving away the closely guarded secret that's he's bought SIP. A secret he was particularly keen to keep from Miss Steele. See what I mean? Jerk.

_Double fault._

And she's pissed. Really pissed.

_Well, no shit, Sherlock!_

"What kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who he is currently fucking?"

_Thirty-love to Miss Steele._

The boss is getting hammered. I'm thinking of having commemorative T-shirts printed.

I pull up outside of Miss Steele's and act like the Pinball Wizard. _Oh please! Pop culture reference? You must know that one._

She slams out of the car.

"I think you'd better wait here, Taylor," says the boss.

Yup, already worked that out. You hired me for my brains, not my snappy suits, bossman.

He tries to talk her down – _double fault_.

"It's gross moral turpitude – the fact that I am fucking my boss's boss's boss."

_Forty-love to Miss Steele._

"At the moment you're arguing with him."

"That's because he's such an ass!"

_Game, set and match to Miss Steele._

It could go either way. Inside, I'm _begging_ Miss Steele to put the poor bastard out of his misery – mostly because I have a couple of scenes planned out with Miss Moneypenny back at Escala, one of which may involve fun with food, and I do not want Beethoven's 'Pathétique' playing in the background if that dumb jerk fucks up again, no matter how apt a musical segue it is for the boss.

I can't help thinking Miss Steele needs a holiday named after just because of everything she's had to put up with*. Well, the boss is rich: he should be able to swing that.

Eventually she lets him in and my torture – and his – is ended.

Close one.

He waves me on my way with a weird look on his face. Wait… maybe… could be… yep… thinking it is… the boss is happy.

_Doesn't it just make you feel warm all over?_

And I drive like a bat out of hell back to Escala because I have every intention of making Gail feel warm all over with the least amount of time between me exiting the car and entering, well, the apartment, for starters.

"Jason!"

Gail's voice is strained and immediately my hand reaches for the Korth.

"Kelly just rang: Sophie isn't well."

"What? What's happened? Why the fuck didn't she call my cell? Stupid fucking bitch."

"I don't know, Jason, but yelling at me isn't going to help. Nor will yelling at her. She thinks Sophie has some sort of gastroenteritis. They've taken her to the emergency room."

I feel like every drop of blood has drained out of my body. _Not Sophie. Not my princess._

"Jason, I'm sure it will be fine. Children have these stomach upsets all the time and you know how Kelly tends to panic."

I want to yell that's easy for her to say, but I don't.

I pull out my cell and call the Bitch.

"Kelly: how is she?"

"We don't know yet, Jason: a doctor is checking her. I'll have to call you back."

And the fucking bitch hangs up on me, leaving me staring at a useless hunk of plastic.

"I'm going down there."

"Jason," Gail lays a cool hand on my arm, "just give it ten minutes. Wait until the doctor has seen her."

I know she's right, but it feels wrong, standing here as useless as a sundeck on a submarine.

Ten minutes are up and the Bitch hasn't called back. I try her cell but it's turned off.

"That's it: I'm heading down there."

Gail bites her lip but doesn't try to stop me. I text the boss to tell him I'm going away and arrange for Sawyer to do the security sweeps. Just as I'm heading out, my cell rings.

"Jason, she's fine. She's ok. The doctor says it's just stomach flu."

I hear the tremble in her voice and remember, for the briefest moment, that I cared about her once.

"Thank, Christ. I'm coming down, Kelly."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jason," she snaps, reminding me why we got divorced. "It's late at night and I'm taking her home. I was just letting you know. She doesn't need upsetting now."

"I'm her father, for fuck's sake!"

"Don't swear at me, Jason, and stop trying to bully me. Maybe next weekend. I'll let you know."

"FUCK!" I yell into the phone as she cuts me off _again_.

Gail wraps her arms around me and, with her touch, I feel like I can breathe again.

Saturday morning, and my woman is going away. It's only for one night, but I feel like someone cut off my right arm.

"Jason, put me down! I'm only going to be gone till Sunday evening!"

"Too long," I murmur into her warm, soft, deliciously-scented neck.

She gives a light laugh and tugs my hair.

"Hey, this is getting long! I thought you told me that if you could hold onto your sideburns, your buzzcut was in need of a trim**. You'd better shape up, Marine!"

"You're leading me astray, woman."

_Damn, I love it when she's a bad influence_.

"You don't seem to have any difficulty being led, Jason."

"Not true! I'm trying to make an honest woman of you, but you don't want to give up living in sin."

She stills, and I regret my words because now they've broken the mood.

"You know what I think about that Jason. I don't want to discuss it again."

"Ok, but can we discuss some more sin when you get back?"

"I'll think about it, Jason."

_Oh yeah, me, too._

With the apartment empty, and with no distractions, I can focus on keeping the boss safe. I check all the entrances and exits _again_, but still nothing. There's something I'm missing: and I do not like that fucking feeling.

I'm almost relieved when Welch calls me with an update. But not for long.

"We've got a problem, Taylor. The Williams woman has been stalking Miss Steele."

"What the fuck?"

"Yes, a confirmed sighting yesterday evening."

"And you're telling me this _now?_ What happened? Is Miss Steele ok? Is she hurt? Was the boss there…?"

"Shut the fuck up and I'll tell you!"

_He's right: I have to focus_.

"Williams approached Miss Steele outside her place of work at approximately 1750 last night. She didn't make threats but she did speak to Miss Steele. She asked her, 'What do you have that I don't?' Does that make sense to you, Taylor?"

"Of course it fucking makes sense, Welch! She wants to know why she didn't end up as the boss's girlfriend. Move it on: what happened?"

"She left. Miss Steele didn't think anything of it and forgot about it – until she had a nightmare last night."

And that really, really pisses me off. That fucking Williams woman has scared Gail to the point where she doesn't want to be in the apartment by herself, and now she's giving Miss Steele nightmares? _No fucking way!_

"I'll add a twice-daily sweep of Miss Steele's apartment to the security rota, Welch. I'll make a personal inspection this afternoon. Grey is there with her at the moment and…"

Welch takes a deep breath.

"There's more, Taylor: Williams has acquired a gun licence."

"How the fuck…?"

"And she's managed to obtain a concealed weapons' permit."

"*%$%^&## ($%^*%^! F-U-C-K!"

"Yes, that about sums up my thoughts. Mr Grey is aware – he's on his way back to Miss Steele's apartment now so she can collect some personal items; they'll be back at Escala within the hour."

"The boss has a fundraiser event at his parents' tonight: I'll try to persuade him to cancel… and if not, I want Sawyer and Ryan."

"Done."

"Where the fuck is that Williams bitch, Welch?"

"I wish I knew. She hasn't touched her bank account or used a credit card. The concealed weapon's permit is our first, solid clue."

I put the phone down and the first thing I do is check my Korth because _nothing_ is going to happen to Miss Steele and the boss: _not on my fucking watch._

I sweep the apartment _again_ and wait by the elevator when I see that the boss and Ana have arrived in the underground garage.

The boss gets straight to the point.

"Has Welch been in touch?

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

"Everything's arranged."

"Excellent. How's your daughter?"

_See, this is why I put up with all the boss's fucked up shit: he's remembered that Sophie was sick. Gotta rate that twisted bastard._

"She's fine, thank you, sir."

"Good. We have a hairdresser arriving at one – Franco de Luca."

_Yeah, I know the flash asshole. Gail thinks he's 'cute'. I hate him. Phony fucking accent: he's as Italian as a Wienerschnitzel, but a lot less useful._

Miss Steele smiles at me.

"Miss Steele."

"Hi, Taylor. You have a daughter?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How old is she?"

"She's seven: she lives with her mother."

"Oh, I see."

And I know that she does: Miss Steele's parents got divorced, too.

I follow the boss to his study and give him the latest.

"I'd like to recommend that you cancel going to Mr and Mrs Grey's fundraiser tonight, sir. There'll be upwards of 300 guests plus catering staff and musicians. I can't guarantee…"

"I know that, Taylor. I fucking know that. Look, my parents have already agreed to extra security staff and with Ryan and Sawyer, too…"

"Sir, my _recommendation_ is that you cancel."

"Noted. I'm not."

_Oh, for fuck's sake!_

"In that case, sir, I'll want full access to the grounds and your parents' house from 4pm. Welch's team will do a preliminary sweep and then be on stand-by throughout. _And they will be armed, sir_."

"My parents won't be happy having armed men on the property, Taylor."

"Non-negotiable, sir… or I walk."

And I mean it. If he wants me to keep Miss Steele and him safe, I have to be able to do my job without one hand tied behind my back.

"Sir, we still don't know if Miss Williams is after you or Miss Steele. We have to assume after last night's encounter that she knows everything about Miss Steele, including her place of work, home address and typical schedule. I _will not_ leave her exposed at a fucking fundraiser. Sir."

His eyes widen. I've never spoken to him like that before, but I call it as I see it.

"Fine. But low profile, for fuck's sake."

_Yeah, I can do that: the cool cat who walks alone._

"My sister will be pleased to see you, Taylor," he says, blandly, as if it's an afterthought.

_Bastard! He's getting his own back_.

And I can't help groaning: I need a run-in with Mia Grey as much as Colonel Custer needs more Indians.

* Thanks to Louisvuittonfreak for this idea.

** Thanks to Ana Alfaro for this snippet of info.


	25. Chapter 25 - Masquerade

**Thank you for all your messages of support. I've had some personal stuff to deal with, but now the big guy has kicked his way out of the box. He's back and he's bad!**

Chapter 5/Chapter 25 – Masquerade

When I was a kid, my neighbour had this dog; it was desperate for attention but used to bark at everyone who went near it. Grey kinda reminds me of that dog.

I've definitely seen a different side to him since Ana Steele came on the scene. And it scares the fuck out of him. Despite being a rich bastard, he doesn't really care that much about the money. Sure, he likes to have nice things, and I have to say he has A1 taste in cars, but that all pales into insignificance next to Ana: he's finally found something – someone – that is more valuable, that he really cares about losing. And since this business with the Williams bitch, he's been a hair's breadth from Defcon 1 continually. I can tell that he'd like to order Ana to stay at Escala and never set foot out of the door; hell, he'd bubblewrap her if he could, and not in a kinky way.

But that's not going to happen: Ana is determined to live her own life. I really admire her for that. She's just a kid, but she knows what she wants – and she doesn't want to live in a 24-carat gold cage.

So tonight, at this damn fundraiser, I'll do my part to keep her safe.

I've sent Ryan and Sawyer over to Bellevue with the new guy, John Reynolds: they'll do a full sweep and have eyes covering all the entrances. Welch's team are doing background checks on the guests and staff – so I guess we're good to go. Well, as good as it gets: nothing is ever 100% secure. I know that from too much fucking experience.

It makes me nervous as hell to think that Williams has a gun. It's hard to see it: she was a clever, manipulative woman, but I never figured her for this crazy stalking shit. Guess she was a lot more fucked up than I'd realized. Then again, if she's just lost her reason for living now her boyfriend has died, I can see why that would screw her up royally; so she wants back in on the only other time she felt safe – with the boss. But she's giving Ana nightmares, and I won't fucking stand for that.

I can't stop Grey from going to this fundraiser, much as I'd like to, and I'm really not happy about it. I'd like to tell the team to wear protective clothing, but that's going to stick out like a sore thumb. Even the most lightweight body armor is impossible to hide under a suit, and stab vests are bulky, too. Plus, I don't want Ana to feel more threatened than she already does.

Ah hell, I've got those fucking fireworks to deal with on top of everything. I really hope the boss leaves before that shit starts. He doesn't usually stay to the finale, but I have a feeling tonight will be different – in so many ways.

The phone interrupts my dark thoughts.

"You're on speaker-phone, Welch. What's the sitrep?"

"Bellevue is secured, as much as it can be. The staff and guest list checks haven't brought up anything of concern. But…"

He hesitates: I really fucking hate it when he does that because I know it's not going to be good news.

"Taylor, I've got some more intel on the weapon that the Williams woman bought: it's a Taurus PT140 – a Millennium Pro CF."

The air whistles through my teeth as I realize the significance of what he's telling me. The bitch has bought a pistol made out of carbon fiber – it's not going to get picked up by a metal detector. This is really bad, fucking news for two reasons. Firstly, the fucking obvious one that it removes one important tool in keeping firearms away from Ana and the boss; and secondly, it makes me think she's got something specific planned. And I really don't fucking like that.

"Ok, keep me updated, Welch. I'll let Grey know."

The boss isn't going to like this. I need to let him know what Welch has found out.

But when I enter the living room, I can see that I'm interrupting an intimate moment. Over the last four years I've had to interrupt quite a few of the boss's 'intimate moments', and I really fucking wish I hadn't. The worst was this one time when a suicidal member of his staff was threatening to throw himself off the thirtieth floor of Grey House and refused to talk to anyone but Grey himself.

On that occasion, I had to knock on the door of his _playroom_ while he was engaged in something involving a lot of ropes and some poor bitch suspended from the ceiling. I can't even remember which of his women it was – probably the one with brown hair.

I was damn glad he took the time to put on his pants before he answered the door – not that I'm the sensitive kind, but _that_ definitely isn't in my job description. And because we were in a hurry to leave, I had to help him get her down. I damn well needed therapy after that and it was quite a while before I could take Sophie to see the trapeze artistes at the circus without getting flashbacks. I still get motion sickness thinking about it.

And all through that, Grey was just irritated that he'd had his coitus interrupted. It was that same expression on his face as when Andrea reminds him that he's got to talk to a journalist: that's how much it meant to him.

But this is different. I feel like a fucking creepy voyeur, disturbing him while he and Ana are having a moment – and all they're doing is holding each other and kissing sweetly.

I cough politely.

"Mr Grey."

His hands slip from Ana's waist.

"Taylor." His tone of voice hits the Kelvin scale.

I don't want to say anything in front of Ana, but the boss knows me, and he's astute enough to recognise that what I have to say is for his ears only.

"My study," he snaps, and I march the hell out of there.

His voice softens as he tells Ana that he'll take a rain check.

"What is it?" I like that the boss always gets straight to the point.

"Welch found out that Miss Williams obtained a weapon made of carbon fiber."

And I really like that I don't have to explain the blindingly obvious implications of that either.

He goes pale and I know it's not fear for himself that's making him look scared for the only second time since I've known him: the first was when Ana left.

He sits at his desk and holds his head in his hands for a moment. Then he straightens and takes command again.

"No-one, but _no-one_ is to get close to Miss Steele tonight," he snarls. "I want her watched every fucking second. If for any reason I can't be with her, I don't want her left alone. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"How the fuck did Leila get a concealed weapon permit? The fucking gun laws in this country are crazy."

He throws me a challenging look. It's an old argument between us, but not one I'm going to get into now.

"I don't want any fuck-ups tonight, Taylor. This is… important."

For a moment I'm annoyed. Just because the boss wants to play Prince Fucking Charming and take Cinderella to the ball, he's putting his life at risk – and Ana's. If I could just persuade him to stay home until the Williams bitch is behind bars. But at the same time, I get his point of view, too. The poor sap is in love and he wants to have a slice of ordinary life tonight. That's the thing about extreme wealth – it can bring extreme fucking problems, too. Every time the boss meets someone, he has to think about what they want from him, how they're planning to use him. That's another reason why Ana means so much to him: she damn well dislikes that he's so wealthy. For some reasons she loves him for himself; now if the poor bastard could get his head around that, he might actually have that slice of happiness he's reaching for.

Jeez, I wish Gail were here. She's so much better at this touchy-feely crap. Right now the only thing I can do to help the boss is my own damn job – and do it well. Like he said: no fuck-ups. Although, as it's the boss we're talking about, I wouldn't be surprised if fucking wasn't definitely on his list of priorities tonight.

"And I don't want Miss Steele going _anywhere _unaccompanied at any time. Clear?"

"Of course, sir."

_Does he seriously think I'm going to let anything happen to Ana? I'm not a fucking moron._

"Ok, we're done here," he says, and gets up to rejoin Ana in the main room.

I go back to my office and see from the CCTV that the guys are on their way back up.

"Sir!" I call out after him.

"Yes?"

"Sawyer, Ryan, and the new guy Welch sent over, are on their way up."

"I'll brief them in ten," he says, sounding very fucking tense.

"We'll be ready."

_Too fucking right_.

Luke introduces me to John Reynolds. I know Welch won't have sent me an amateur and Reynolds seems like a solid guy. Doesn't have much of a sense of humor though; he reminds me of me.

"Luke, anything to report at Bellevue?"

He sighs. "Apart from the fact it's fucking wide open? There's access from the water; the perimeter isn't viable – a ten year old could get over their exterior wall if he had a mind to. Welch says the guest list checks out but I don't like it. Any chance Grey will cancel?"

"Why the fuck didn't I think of that? Oh wait, I did. And then I nearly got my ass fired for suggesting it. Anything _useful_ you want to tell me, Luke?"

He has the sense to look pretty fucking embarrassed; I can see Ryan trying to hide a smile.

Ok, so maybe I'm being a might tetchy, but I think I've got every fucking reason. And it's a _masked_ ball, so telling the asses from a hole in the ground isn't going to be easy.

"Got any _good_ news?" I mutter, trying to calm down.

"Welch has arranged for a team to watch the perimeter: best I can say, boss."

_Yeah, now he's trying to brown-nose me by calling me 'boss'. The only person I want calling me 'boss' is Gail – and that ain't never gonna happen. On the other hand, she called me 'God' the other night; I guess that's kind of a promotion._

Reynolds looks over his shoulder.

"Heads up: officer on deck," he mutters.

Grey paces into the room.

"Sir, you know Sawyer and Ryan; you haven't met John Reynolds."

They shake hands.

"They've been out to your parents' to do a sweep, and Welch has eyes on the perimeter. It's as good as it's going to get."

I shrug, sending him a loud and fucking clear message.

He frowns, but doesn't say anything.

"Sawyer will be up front with me in the Audi," I continue; "Ryan and Reynolds will be in the escort car."

The boss looks irritated and I know it's not with me, but this fucked-up situation.

"What time do you want to leave, sir?"

"Eight," he says, tiredly, rubbing his forehead. "And tomorrow afternoon I want to take Miss Steele out on the _Grace_. Usual checks."

He turns to go, and then something occurs to him.

"A word, Taylor."

I follow him out of my office.

"Do you have a red lipstick?"

_Excuse me? I don't fucking think so!_

He almost smiles as he reads my tense reaction.

"I was hoping Mrs Jones might have something?"

_Oh._ Whatever he's got in mind, I really, _really_ don't want to know what it is.

"I'll look for you, sir, but Mrs Jones will have my ass… won't be very happy."

"No, I don't imagine she will," he murmurs, without cracking so much as a faint smile. _Bastard_.

I check out Gail's dressing table. Everything is put away neatly, but I know where she keeps all her shit. She doesn't need all that warpaint crap; she's a real natural beauty. To me, she looks most beautiful when she wakes up in my arms, and opens those beautiful blue eyes for the first time in the morning. That, and the way she looks when she's ridden me over a few jumps. Damn, she looks fine with that wicked glint in her eye.

I pull out a lipstick. I have no idea if it's one of Gail's favorites or not: Dior, in a bright red shade called 'Fireworks'. I really hope the boss isn't going to wear it, because a) I so don't need that image in my head, and b) it'll really clash with his hair.

I hand it over without comment.

"Thank you," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Have Caroline Acton replace it and anything else you think Mrs Jones would like."

And he wanders off in the direction of Ana's bedroom.

I breathe a sigh of relief because I know I'll have a couple of hours' peace.

Sawyer, Ryan and Reynolds are kicking back in my lounge – that is, the staff lounge.

"Everything cool with Grey?" asks Luke.

"Yeah, well, as cool as it gets for him. He doesn't want any fuck-ups tonight; I told him there wouldn't be any – don't you assholes make me into a liar."

"Where's the glorious Gail?" says Ryan, with a leer. "She's a really great… cook."

"If you want to keep your teeth in your mouth when you smile, you'll fucking close it now," I say, coolly.

He laughs out loud. _Bastard_.

"You've got a really sweet deal here, T," says Sawyer. "Nice apartment, _nice company_, cushy number with Grey."

I really didn't think I'd ever hear the words 'cushy' and 'Grey' in the same sentence. I might have to rethink Sawyer's level of intelligence. Yeah, pond life just got personality.

"Just yanking your chain, buddy," he says, quickly, reading my level of irritation that just went up to 11. "But seriously, do you ever miss being a bootneck?"

"You mean sharing living space with 20 guys and eating MREs three times a day in 120-degree heat? Not so much."

"Huh, you say so? What's it like working for this Grey guy?" asks Reynolds. "You like this close protection work?"

I know he's only recently punched out from the Navy Seals so I give him some leeway.

"It's a different level of intensity. Like, you're totally in some stranger's life, but you're not part of it either. It can get a bit crazy keeping everything separate. But Grey isn't a publicity hound like some of the assholes I've worked for. He works, he sees his family and his girl. That's it."

_Ok, so I might have been economical with the truth, but it's no-one's fucking business. I mean, the boss's fucking is no-one's business._

"So how much of a problem is this ex-girlfriend of his?" says Ryan. "I mean, what did he do to her that she's coming after him with a gun?"

"We don't know that she is after him: she was seen outside Miss Steele's workplace," I remind him. "Welch says her weapon is a Taurus PT140 – carbon fiber."

I don't need to explain to them what that means – and I have no intention of explaining the whole Domme-submissive game. I decide to change the subject.

"Grey told me he's taking his boat out tomorrow afternoon, so I want that checked out tonight, and again in the morning."

A couple of hours later, we all change into our fade-into-the-background good suits, and do a comms check while we're waiting in the foyer.

"Luke, you're with me in the Audi; John, Alex – you're on escort. Everyone know what the fuck they're doing?"

They all nod, and Grey strides over, looking tense.

"Taylor?"

"We're good to go, sir."

And I realize I've only got part of their attention, when Reynolds does his goldfish impersonation and Ryan looks he's about to drool.

_So fucking uncool_.

I turn around and see Ana walking towards us. She looks un-fucking-believable. Just stunning. I mean, I always thought she was a cute kid, but right now she looks so damn beautiful. I feel kind of proud of her. Maybe it'll feel like this when I see Sophie go to her first prom. Not that I'll allow any creepy kid getting their paws on her. I read that teenage boys think about sex every 15 seconds – or maybe that was Grey, I can't remember. Either way, I'll be _escorting_ Sophie to her first prom. And I'll be armed.

But Ana looks amazing; I really wish Gail was here to see it.

"Anastasia, you look breathtaking."

I feel like fucking cheering: the boss has managed to compliment his girl without making an ass of himself. It's a Kodak moment, in a non-visual, auditory sort of way.

I send the goon patrol down to the garage to make sure there are no problems down there, while Grey and Ana enjoy a glass of champagne.

Finally we head out and I hear Ana ask the boss where he got the lipstick.

"Taylor."

She starts to laugh, and then, out of respect for my feelings, smothers it immediately. God, she's a great girl. But I really fucking wish she hadn't asked, because Luke is going to own my ass after this.

I think I know how I can get him back – I'll let him deal with Miss Mia-Exocet-mouth Grey. Yeah, payback. Well, it would be if he'd done anything, which he will. What can I say: I'm a planner.

We arrive at Bellevue and there's a long line of cars snaking their way up the drive. I spot a black SUV sitting by the perimeter; it's good to know Welch's team is on the case.

Once we reach the green carpet, a valet opens the boss's door, and Sawyer jumps out to open Miss Steele's.

He escorts them discreetly while I park the car.

_Show time_.

Ryan and Reynolds are checking out the pergola and entertainment areas; Sawyer is with the boss and Ana. I've just about finished doing a sweep of the house when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I whip around and try to frame words, but nothing comes out. It's like the nightmarish scene in 'Ghostbusters' where they conjure up the source of their own destruction just by thinking about it. But it's not a 100 Puft Marshmallow Man who's stalking me… it's much, much worse.

"Hello, Taylor," she says. "I was hoping I'd see you… by yourself."

I break out into a cold sweat and my pulse rate goes through the roof.

_Where the fuck is back-up?_

"My date has been such a disappointment. But now you're here! It must be my lucky night."

I try to speak but my mouth has inconveniently frozen into the shape of a scream.

"Mom always says you shouldn't send a boy to do a man's work. I so agree, don't you… Jason?"

I wonder if I can make it to the door before…

"Will you dance with me, Jason? I'm sure my brother wouldn't mind. Just one little dance?"

_Over my dead body – which looks like it could well be the case_.

She takes a step closer and I measure the distance to the window. If I don't stop to open it, I should just be able to make it through into the garden – I can call a glazier later.

But then there's a figure in the doorway, and relief floods through me.

"All clear on the second story, T. Oh, sorry… should I come back later?"

Luke Sawyer is staring at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

" 'T'? Oh, wow, is that like code? That's so cute! Who's your friend, Jason? Hi, my name's Mia. It's really nice to meet one of Jason's _special friends_ at last."

"Er… good evening. The name's Sawyer, ma'am."

"Oh, it's so great to meet you Sawyer. Is your first name, like, Tom? Because that would be way cool. Or, you could use it as a nickname for Jason. That would be so funny!"

I really want to run.

"Oh, my! You've got those earpieces like real secret service men! Who are you talking to, Jason? Are there more of you? More of your _friends_, I mean? Can I have a go?"

She reaches up to touch my earpiece and I make a tactical retreat.

"We're working, Miss Grey," I say, severely.

She giggles. Christ she's annoying.

"You're so cute when you get all serious, Jason. What would you do if I attacked you now? Would you handcuff me?"

I start to sweat, and even Sawyer is looking nervous.

I wonder if I should draw my gun, but the way my luck's going she'd probably catch the bullet in her teeth.

"Would you restrain me, Jason? Is that what you do with your _friends_?"

Sawyer's eyes look like they're on swivels, as his gaze toggles between us.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I say, tightly, "I really have to go now."

She pouts.

"You're no fun at parties, T," and she stalks off, looking for fresh prey.

I run my hand across my forehead, wiping off the sweat.

Across the other side of the room, Sawyer is tugging at his tie. "Getting mighty warm in here, T," he says, nervously.

_Too fucking right_.

I head out to get some fresh air and see the boss dragging Ana across the lawn. From the look on his face, I'm left in no doubt what's on his mind. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he threw her over his shoulder and made a run for it, he looks so fucking desperate.

"I'll wait here," I say to Sawyer.

He glances towards Grey and Ana. "Roger that," he says and wanders off to get some food.

Whatever goes on inside the house, they're not long. _Yeah, whatever goes on_. They come out, looking flushed and relaxed. I really wish Gail wasn't away this weekend.

I see the boss twirling his girl around in his arms on the dance floor, and I really wish I was here with Gail; better still, I want to dance with her at our wedding.

Why won't she see that the job I do is different from the person that I am? So, I carry a gun to work. Hell, this is America; it's in the fucking constitution – the 'right to bear arms'. But if it's going to fucking come between us, I might have to rethink my career path. After all, who lies on their death bed wishing they'd spent more time at the office?

But then I see Ana getting up to go to the restroom. I'm really surprised that Grey doesn't go with her: that's what fucking on the job does to you – strips you of judgement. I follow cautiously, not wanting to be caught stalking a lady on the way to, well, her business.

And Ana is prey immediately: that fucking Lincoln bitch is on the prowl. I can tell she's been waiting for her moment.

The boss really won't like that. _I _really don't like that.

I pull out my cell.

"What is it, Taylor?" says the boss, sounding cranky.

"Sir, Miss Steele has just been intercepted in the dining room marquee by Mrs Lincoln. I thought you'd want to know."

He swears horribly, which is pretty fucking shocking, and ends the call.

I keep an eye on the bitch: I'll drag her out of here by her fucking hair if she so much as lays a finger on Ana.

They start talking: or rather the bitch starts lecturing, and Ana looks tense. I want to intervene and end this shit, but it's not my place. But, to my surprise and delight, Ana starts giggling and the bitch looks really pissed.

I don't hear what Ana says to her, but whatever it is, the bitch's jaw is on the floor. I feel like fucking cheering: little Miss Steele is no pushover.

The boss arrives looking stressed, glancing at me as I stare back impassively. Nevertheless, my expression says, _Over to you, boss_.

Ana marches straight past him, her back stiff and straight. He glances back briefly at the bitch who beckons him over, but he makes the smart choice and follows Ana.

I can't help turning to watch the bitch's expression – it's really fucking scary, and a shiver runs through me. That is one cold-hearted daughter of Satan.

The rest of the evening passes without incident – until it's time for the fireworks.

Did I mention how much I fucking hate fireworks?

Dogs are smart critters: they fucking hate fireworks, too. They recognise that the noise and cloud of sparks are unnatural and really fucking dangerous. A dog will cower and hide; hell, they'd put their paws over their damn ears if they could. It takes me back to my time with the Marines. Even now, when I hear that noise and see that bright flash in the sky, I want to yell 'incoming' and hit the fucking deck. Which kinda puts a damper on things when people are enjoying the fireworks.

On top of that, all the damn guests are surging around the boss and Ana. At least the fuckers have removed their masks so I'll be able to tell if the Williams woman is within ten clicks.

I can see Grey glancing at me with something like sympathy in his expression. He knows this isn't easy for me, the whole firework fiasco. Some men would throw it in my fucking face, but the boss never has.

When it's all over, I start to breathe again.

I signal to Grey to wait until the crowd has dispersed, and then we can safely exit to the cars.

Thank fuck this evening is over at last.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 6/26: Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

_Thank fuck this evening is over at last._

I can't believe I was so damn stupid as to think that.

First off Sawyer hands an envelope to Grey. _Ouch!_

I don't know what the boss thinks it is, but I happen to know that it came from the Lincoln bitch. She just won't give up; she's got her claws into the boss so deep, I'm surprised I can't see them sticking out of his chest. And the poor sucker doesn't even seem to realize it.

The atmosphere in the car plunges to the level of the Marianas trench.

"You told her?" says Ana to Grey, her voice sharp with real anger.

The boss is in that guy-place of being on the back foot with both hands tied behind him. _Okay, so maybe he used to get off on that shit, but not anymore_.

"Told who, what?"

"That I call her 'Mrs Robinson'!" she hisses at him.

_That is so fucking funny! Gotta love Miss Steele's sense of humor. _

"It's from Elena?"

The boss isn't usually so slow. But that's because he's got a girlfriend. Women are like psychic vampires: they suck your brains out through your dick, and you don't even realize they've done it, until you find that two plus two is advance math.

Then he catches up – really fucking slowly.

"I'll deal with her tomorrow."

I really hope he kicks that bitch in the ass before dropping her from _Charlie Tango_. She's just no damn good: and I don't like her hanging around Ana.

She falls asleep and the boss just holds her in his arms like he never wants to let her go. I know that feeling. But you can't hold on to anyone that tight, as Gail keeps reminding me. You've got to let them live their life, no matter how fucking frustrating it is when all you want to do is to protect them.

"Do you need me to carry you in?"

I can tell the boss is really hoping that she'll say 'yes' to that. He wants to be her everything. But Little Miss Independence shakes her head.

I drop them at the lobby and Grey nods to tell me he doesn't want to be accompanied.

_Fuck that! I get that he wants to have the perfect and private end to a weird-ass day, but there's a maniac out there – one who digs whips and chains. And she's fucking armed._

So I ignore him and drop Sawyer with Grey who's two busy looking into Ana's sleepy eyes to notice what I've done, then I drive into the underground garage – and that's when all hell breaks loose.

The tires on Ana's car have been slashed and red paint has been smeared all over it.

The tiredness vaults from my brain and I'm on the comms to Sawyer, Ryan and Reynolds.

"Amber alert in the garage. Grey and Miss Steele are on their way up in the elevator. Sawyer – foyer! I'll check the Williams bitch isn't still down here."

I draw my weapon and check out the entire garage. Nothing. It's the most vulnerable part of Escala: any damn idiot could buzz her in without checking who she is. Leila may be crazy but she's not dumb.

Ryan and Reynolds drive in and are on the alert immediately.

"Freight elevator!" I snarl. "We've got to secure the fucking apartment. Sawyer is with Grey and Miss Steele. Come on, move! Assholes and elbows!"

We sprint to the service elevator and I pray that we get there before Williams gets to Ana and the boss.

I tap my earpiece as the elevator moves upward with the speed of a snail's scrotum.

"Sawyer: wait in the foyer with Grey and Miss Steele until we've done a sweep of the apartment. _Do not let them move a fucking muscle, even if it's to sneeze!_"

Sawyer's voice crackles back. "Got it, T." But then a moment later, I want to rip his gizzards into Shreddies-sized pieces. "Taylor, Mr Grey has entered the apartment."

"You fucking ass-licking, scum-sucking, dick-wad of a squirrel's nuts, Sawyer!"

_What part of 'don't let them move' was so fucking hard to understand – I'm not speaking Serbo-Croat!_

The elevator doors open and we fan out, weapons in hands. I don't have to tell Ryan and Reynolds what they have to do: we search, room by fucking room, watching each other's backs, and make it stealthy. We also have to make sure we don't shoot Grey, because although it's not in my close protection manual, shooting the boss doesn't usually lead to a promotion (unless your boss is Jimmy Hoffa.)

Grey appears from his office looking pretty fucking tense.

"Any sign, Taylor?"

"No, sir. We should check your playroom, while Reynolds and Ryan check out the rest of the apartment."

He nods briskly, and we head off.

I watch his back as he unlocks the door to the playroom. I make him wait behind me as I dart inside, keeping low, keeping moving.

I hear his quiet voice in the dim light. "I'll put the lights on now, Taylor."

And I'm taken back to the first time I came in here four years ago. I don't see it as quite so sinister, not now that I know that Grey is basically a decent guy – with some fucked up shit to deal with. And I've noticed that he hasn't so much as looked in the door since Ana left him. Maybe he's found something he needs more.

The room is bathed in a soft, red light, the low lighting throwing distorted shadows onto the walls. A bit like the boss himself. But the room is empty and there's no sign that anyone has been in here.

Ryan's voice buzzes in my ear.

"All clear, T."

I nod at Grey.

"They haven't found anything." _Or anyone._

He frowns at me. "I'll tell Ana you were over-reacting; that might help calm her down. Are you sure Leila couldn't have got into the apartment."

"No, sir. I'm not sure of that."

He nods tiredly.

"We'll take turns on a night-shift, sir. Eyes on the garage and CCTV."

"Thank you, Taylor."

I think he's going to say something else but he changes his mind.

"Debrief in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

He goes to check on Ana, whilst I coordinate _another_ search, with every fucking closet and cupboard double-checked; hell I'm even searching under the beds, as if I'm looking for some demented bogey-man.

Grey sits in his study but I've got nothing new to tell him. The searches have turned up diddlysquat. It pisses me off. It pisses him off. It's a whole fucking pissing contest without the fun of having actually drunk anything first.

His private line rings and I leave him to answer it. I can see from the caller ID on my office computer that it's the Lincoln troll.

"What do you want Elena? … Is that a fucking joke? … What fucking 'gaps' were you planning on filling her in with? … No. … No, I haven't. … That is none of your fucking business… Then why did she look so damn upset? … This is bullshit, Elena. … This is as fucking calm as I'm going to get! … I don't know why you're calling me at this hour. …No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand? … I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone? Are you hearing me? … Good. Good night."

I hear him slam the phone down but somehow I'm left with the distinct and fucking uncomfortable feeling of unfinished business.

And then I hear him talking to Ana. Damn, she must have woken up. I was really hoping she'd be able to sleep through all this shit.

I check the CCTV again. There's that damn worm, burrowing away in the back of my brain. _What have I forgotten? What have I forgotten?_

And then Grey presses the alarm code,

"She's still fucking here!"

And all hell breaks loose. We sprint to the bedroom and nearly collide in the doorway.

"How long ago?"

Adrenaline is burning through me, igniting every part of my tired body and my synapses are sparking like a fucking Starburst missile.

"About 10 minutes ago," Ana stutters.

_What the fuck? You tell me this NOW?_

She quails. So she fucking should!

"Leila knows the apartment like the back of her hand," snaps Grey. "I'm taking Anastasia away now. Find her!" Then he looks at me. "When is Gail back?"

"Tomorrow evening, sir."

"She's not to return until this place is secure. Understand?"

_Of course I fucking understand_. But I appreciate it, too. In the midst of a crisis, the boss thinks about Gail. I won't forget that.

"Yes, sir. Will you being going to Bellevue?"

"I'm not leading this problem to my parents. Book me somewhere."

I nod. "Yes, I'll call you."

And then Ana says,

"Aren't we all overreacting slightly?"

My eyes nearly pop out of my head and are in danger of rolling down my very sharp suit. Either the boss has been downplaying the danger too much, or Miss Steele is _monumentally fucking stupid!_

"She may have a gun!" snaps the boss, in a really restrained way.

I know for a fact he'd rather gag her and throw her over his shoulder than answer such a damn stupid question.

But Miss Steele's reply shows something that surprises me: grit.

"She was standing at the end of my bed. She could have shot me then if that's what she wanted to do."

I realize she's right. The thought chills me. _Not on my fucking watch_. But at the same time it reassures me. Whatever is going on in Leila's fucked up brain, it's not homicidal. Even so, I really want Ana out of here. Now.

And the boss is in agreement with me.

"I'm not prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes."

That's my cue.

I collect jeans, a T-shirt, sweatshirt, sneakers and, God forgive me, I rifle through Miss Steele's underwear drawer until I find the… um… appropriate items.

As it happens I really enjoy rifling through Gail's underwear drawer: not only does it bring back memories but I find it… inspiring.

I brush the thought away (_silk, satin, lace…_) and pack a bag for Miss Steele. At the same time I remember the first night she stayed with the boss, and my highly-paid job as personal security included strolling through the local branch of Victoria's Secret. Gail really appreciated that. Happy days. Or daze, as I seem to recall.

I head back to the foyer and hand Miss Steele her case.

And then she surprises the hell out of me. She wraps her arms around me and gives me a big hug. She's so small and soft and despite everything that's happened since she met the boss, it's an innocent and impulsive gesture.

She's telling me I make her feel safe.

_Fuck! That feels good_.

And then I see the boss's face. He looks like he rather see me hung, drawn and quartered, and tied to a buffalo to have my bare butt dragged over a Saguaro cactus – which might be something of a challenge in Seattle.

I adjust my tie and try not to smile. _Suck it up, Grey, because I'm still The Man._

"Let me know where I'm going," he says tightly, in a voice that means _one more step and you're so fucking fired._

I pass him my company credit card. It would be best if he doesn't make it completely fucking obvious where he is, by checking in under a false name.

"You might want to use this when you get there."

"Good thinking," he says.

Which translates as, _Eat shit and piss nails, Taylor. And then ask me for a fucking raise._

It's important to have a good working relationship with your boss.

Ryan and Reynolds roll up. Ryan shakes his head so I know they haven't found anything.

"Accompany Mr Grey and Miss Steele to the garage."

Ryan starts to throw a quick salute and remembers that he's now a Man In Black. _Jeez, wearing shades at night? Soooooo uncool._

I head back to the office and book them a suite at the Fairmont Olympic.

"In the name of Taylor," I half-yell at the halfwit who answers the phone. "Get the fire lit and make sure there's some decent brandy in the liquor cabinet.

I convey the information to the boss.

And then I let my brain roam through the apartment. _Where? How? Why? Why? _

And then it hits me: the one fucking place. I fucking _knew_ I'd forgotten something. Fucking emergency stairwell!

I sprint on over and sure enough, I can see that the door has been opened recently. How the hell she got past the alarm system, I have no fucking clue.

It's damn creepy: how long has Leila been planning on breaking in here? Was this some sort of twisted back-up plan if her marriage didn't work out?

Whatever. The bitch isn't getting in here again.

I pull out my cellphone.

"Welch, it's Taylor. The bitch was getting in via the fire escape. …Don't I fucking know it! She must have climbed up 30 floors outside! …Yeah, well, probably because she's fucking nuts. Look, I want new locks for every fucking door, interior and exterior – and I want it finished before lunchtime tomorrow. The boss won't care what it costs – get a crew over here _now_."

I send Reynolds and Ryan to follow the boss and to camp out in the Fairmont's security room. We've all gone without sleep before so it's no big deal. And right now, the adrenaline is still pumping. I can't turn my mind away from the horrifying image that replays like a horror film in my head: Leila standing over Ana with a gun.

I don't see that I have any choice: once she's incarcerated, I'll offer my resignation. I've let Grey down. Badly. And not once, but over and over. This is his fucking _home_. This is the place he's supposed to feel safe in. He should be able to bring Ana here as a fucking refuge. Instead, I left the place wide open. Yeah, one fucking mistake, but that's all it takes to be very fucking dead.

And then I feel sick: will Gail come with me?

I push the thought away and concentrate on the job in hand.

The work crew arrives, and I leave Sawyer in the CCTV room while I supervise and make sure I'm the only person with a set of keys at the end.

At some point in the night, Grey texts me. He wants all Ana's clothes put in his closet.

Poor bastard. He's trying so hard to be normal: he hasn't figured it out that relationships last longer if men and women have their own space for clothes. I mean, I have half a dozen suits, a dozen white shirts, six ties, two pairs of jeans and half a dozen T-shirts. Gail's gear would spread over half of Seattle if I let it. I swear two-thirds of it she's never worn in the four years that I've known her, but she won't throw it out _just in case_. Weird.

But the boss wants his Ana near him. Inch by inch, they're coming closer together. It's kinda heart-warming in a cheesy, James Stewart-Donna Reed sort of way.

By morning, Escala is secure: all the locks have been changed; the codes for the freight and passenger elevators have been reprogrammed for access to the penthouse. Welch even hired a specialist to try and break-in. He didn't make it past the garage on the first attempt; and no higher than the fifth floor on the second. Thank fuck.

My eyeballs are so far past blinking, I could stick them in gin and wouldn't even need the vermouth to make a dry Martini.

I could send Reynolds and Ryan to check out the _Grace_, but I don't want any more fuck-ups – even if they were my fuck-ups in the first place. So I take the Audi and drive on over there.

"Hey, Mac. How's it going?"

"Taylor! What about ye big mawn, what are ye at the day?"

I swear he does it just to piss me off. What fucking language is he speaking?

"Any problems down here?"

"Fer fuhsake! Catch yerself on ya fuggen goat ye!"

"Aw, come on, man! You know I don't speak Irish. What the fuck have goats got to do with it?"

"Ya buck eejit ye, Taylor, so it is!"

"Yeah, yeah. Any sightings of Leila Williams?"

"Man, she's a fuggen dickbax, no bones about it. I'd knack the ballbegs ballix in."

I think he's serious this time because he looks really annoyed.

"So… we good here, Mac?"

"Suckin' diesel, big mawn."

There's one useful thing I've learned from Mac in the two years that I've known him: he has more words for getting drunk than the whole damn US Marines. A short sample could include: bladdered, pole-axed, blitzed, shattered, wracked, steamin', pished, banjaxed and my own personal favorite, blootered, which always makes me think of TinTin for some reason.

I also happen to know that Mac is a solid guy.

"Look, don't mess around with the Williams woman. Radio-in any sightings: she's armed, Mac.

"Aye, amn't nae eejit, Taylor."

"Yeah, well, Grey will be over this afternoon – and he's got his girlfriend with him."

Mac looks astonished, and nearly trips over his own teeth.

"Ye what?"

"Yep, all true. And she's really great. Her name's Ana, so just look the fuck after her. Capiche?"

"Aye, big mawn, like ma own janine."

"Speak English or I'll set Mia Grey on you."

He grins and holds up his hands in defeat.

_Mia Grey – my weapon of stealth. Works every time. Hmm, maybe not that stealthy but still fucking fearful._

Mac's Northern Irish accent is so broad that sometimes I think it would easier communicating via carrier pigeon. But Mac's a good guy. He's also ex-Royal Irish, which is one of the toughest regiments in the British Army. He doesn't like to talk about it much. I can guess the reasons why.

Reassured, I drive back Escala and stew.

And then the one good thing in my life walks through the door.

"Hello, Jason."

There are no words for how I feel when I look at her. I stride over and take her in my arms.

She laughs, softly.

"I take it you're pleased to see me!"

"Oh, baby, you have no idea."

"What's been going on here? Why did you text me a new access code for the Penthouse?"

I sigh. I really didn't want to get into this, but I owe Gail the truth.

"Leila. She got in. Last night. Grey took Ana to a hotel, but it's been… difficult."

"Oh, Jason! Are you okay?"

_Am _I_ okay? God, I love this woman_.

"Yeah, baby. It's all good now."

"So where are Mr Grey and Ana now?"

"He took her sailing."

She beams. "Oh, he really loves her, doesn't he, Jason! It's so wonderful. I'd almost given up hoping. Tell me all about the ball. How did she look?"

"Not as beautiful as you, baby."

"You can be very sweet! But I want to know. Everything."

"She looked good. It went well. The shit hit the fan when we got back."

She rolls her eyes.

"What did she wear? Did she wear the midnight blue or the silver ballgown? How did she do her hair? Did you see her with her masque on?"

_What is it with women? Who gives a shit? She wore clothes, for fuck's sake._

And I really know better than to say what I'm thinking. Speaking before reflecting upon my words will not get me laid tonight. That is the fucking voice of experience: or possibly… That is the voice of fucking experience.

"Silver. She looked good. The boss was happy. He paid $100,000 at the auction thing."

"Oh my goodness! Well, that's a lot of money… he obviously wasn't going to let anyone else dance with her."

"Yeah, Flynn tried to bid for Ana, but he gave it up when the zeroes started racking up."

Gail laughs. "I bet!"

"The Lincoln woman was there trying to fuck things up for the boss."

Gail's face tightens with anger.

"Tell me! What happened?"

"She waited until she got Ana on her own…"

"Oh, no!"

"And I don't know what Ana said to her, but I'd say that little Miss Steele is made of iron. Told off that Lincoln bitch. She fucking laughed at her. You should have seen Lincoln's face!"

A smile of pure delight on Gail's face is almost blinding.

"Good for her. I can't stand that bi… woman!"

"Gail, honey, is my bad language rubbing off on you? Because if it is, there are other parts that I could rub off on you instead…"

"Mmm! Now _that _sounds marvellous…"

_Yeah, baby!_

"If only I didn't have to cook dinner for Mr Grey and Ana. But hold that thought, Jason."

"It's not all that I'm holding, baby."

"_Evidently_, Jason."

Maybe, maybe not. But the evidence will certainly be catalogued and displayed later.

"It's a date, baby."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

**Hope you all enjoyed the one-shot 'Taylor and the Thanksgiving Turkey Massacre'. Now, back to our regular programming.**

The boss is back. I've been watching his approach on the computer. Well, watching the positioning of his car's lo-jack.

"Sawyer, Grey's back."

"Okay, T, I'll go cover the garage."

It's been good having Luke here over the last few days. I can trust him: he knows what he's doing and I know he's got my back. Although it's been weird having him sharing the staff quarters with me and Gail – and he's eaten _all_ the fucking marbled almond Roca cookies. But it made me realize something: Escala is my home. I've gotten so used to thinking of this as a job, I hadn't even noticed the change. Or maybe it's not so much Escala as the fact Gail is here: Gail is my home.

On the other hand, maybe it's just all the damn joy that Grey has been radiating since Ana came into his life. Now he knows what he'd be missing if she left. And if Gail left… I really don't want to fucking think about that, but I have to. I have to remember that this _is_ a job… and if I keep fucking up, I'm going to get fired. And then I remind myself I was going to resign anyway – I let the Williams bitch get into Grey's home. Not just once, but over and over. Which proves my fucking point: I've gone soft. I've let things slip. Fuck, if anything had happened to Gail or to Ana… No, that's not right: something _did_ happen to both of them. And they'll both be having nightmares for months. _On my fucking watch._

At least Williams can't get back into Escala: I'm certain of that. Unless, of course Grey invited her, and that _so_ isn't going to happen. Right now, he'd like to string her up by her… um… in a totally non-sexual way, I mean.

I have to resign. _But will Gail come with me?_

I head for the elevator and stand by, ready to meet Grey and Ana. The doors slide open and I'm treated to the really private spectacle of them kissing as if the end of the world has just been announced.

I step back, out of their eye-line, although I'm pretty certain Ana spotted me.

I still can't get used to seeing the boss lose control like that. I've seen him radiating red-hot fury to the point where Barney considered wearing a fire-blanket to meetings, but there was always something almost calculated about it, like he knew _exactly_ what effect this had on his staff. And he didn't do it very often – he didn't need to. His icy-cold anger was more terrifying; that shark-like ability to hone in on anyone's weakness. Not me, of course, because up until this last week _I'd never fucked up so badly_.

The only other time Grey lets any emotion show is when he's playing that damn piano, that gloomy, fucking, throat-slitting misery music… and when he's asleep: no man can out-run those demons.

"Good evening, Taylor."

"Mr Grey, Miss Steele."

And then Ana beams at me. "I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday."

I can feel my cheeks get hot. _Wow! Is that what a blush feels like?_ I haven't blushed in four years.

"That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele."

"I thought so, too," she replies, still smiling happily.

I see the boss's fingers tighten on her with a death grip. He looks as if he'd like to rip my arms off and use them to beat me over the head. It's a pretty mild reaction for him – especially where Ana is concerned.

"If you two have quite finished. I'd like a debriefing," he spits out.

_Yeah, very fucking smooth. Not._

Ana cringes and she mouths 'Sorry' at me before Grey marches her off to her dungeon, um, bedroom.

"I'll be with you shortly," snarls Grey. What he really means is 'you're so fucking fired'.

_Whatever_.

I'm almost surprised he doesn't piss on the walls to mark his territory. _Maybe that will come later_. But if he tries to piss on my shoes, I'm outta here.

"I just want a word with Miss Steele."

I look at her with some sympathy. Looks like she'll get the riot act read to her before me. Still, at least it will show her what she's signed up for. But no matter what Grey thinks, she's the one on top in this relationship.

I go and wait in the office. Sawyer is still patrolling; I can see him on the CCTV cameras. He's checking out the cars belonging to other Escala residents. _Thorough._

Grey strides into the office, still looking pissed. _Yeah? Well, you're not the only one, buddy, so don't fucking push me_.

I fold my arms across my chest and wait for his tirade. But it doesn't come; instead he stares at me appraisingly.

"Report, Taylor," he says, almost mildly.

_Jeez. Did they fuck already?_

"All the locks and access codes have been changed; we've completed a fingertip search of the apartment, garage and public areas of Escala; I personally checked Miss Steele's apartment and CCTV of the surrounding streets. We've found nothing, sir, but Williams won't be getting in here again."

He nods, looking distracted.

"Miss Steele's clothes and belongings have been moved to your room, sir. I've retained Sawyer's services 24/7 on a week-by-week basis; Ryan and Reynolds are on-call via Welch."

"Has Mrs. Jones returned from her sister's?"

"Yes, sir, but she's out at the moment. Sawyer's checking out the other residents' vehicles in the garage. Sir, it's definitely a weak-spot: any one of them could buzz in a delivery, whether or not it's legit. But as you know, the penthouse floor is coded and I've had alarms placed on all access panels." _Including the fucking fire-escape._

I shrug. _And unless you bubble-wrap Ana, that's as good as it gets._

He runs his hands through his hair and I know he's still worried. _Yup, join the club._

"Thank you, Taylor."

And he walks out.

_What? Is that it? No getting fired? No rampant jealousy? No yelling until my ears melt?_ The boss is getting _soft_.

I kinda miss the old days.

I go back to studying the surveillance cameras. Sawyer is using the under-vehicle search mirror. I'm not saying the Williams woman is capable of planting a car bomb, but I'm not taking the fucking chance either.

I'm surprised when I hear the boss's voice behind me again.

"Hi, Taylor. I'm just giving Anastasia the tour."

I nod politely but right now I'm intent on something a little bit illegal, so I don't respond. At this precise moment, Sawyer is fixing GPS trackers to _all _the Escala residents' cars. I want to know where the fuck everyone who lives in this building is, day and night. I want to know _every _fucking time someone enters the garage who isn't in a registered vehicle. Yeah, I know: infringement of civil liberties and all that, but if keeps Ana and the boss safe, then I don't give a rat's ass. So sue me. But definitely not something I'll be telling Grey.

Monday passes peacefully, at least for me. I take the boss to work and leave him in Grey House, reiterating my instructions to the security staff that no fucker – other than the boss – is to get into his office, or even onto his floor. That's pretty fucking clear but it's worth saying again. I'll tattoo it on their fucking foreheads if I have to. And then give them mirrors.

Back at Escala, it's time to take Ana to work. She's obviously still concerned about her 'Mrs. Taylor' comment, but you know what? That girl has done me a favor. And this is why…

I was still checking surveillance footage when Gail got back from meeting her friend Janice.

"Jason, haven't you eaten yet?"

"No, baby. Thought I'd wait for you. And I've been going over the CCTV tapes with Luke."

"Well, you should both eat. Where is he?"

"Finishing off in the garage. He'll be up soon."

"I take it Mr Grey and Miss Steele are back. How did she enjoy sailing?"

"Took to it like a duck to water, Mac said. I think that's what he said. Although he could have been saying something about Doctor Watson… it's kinda hard to tell."

She laughs lightly, then looks serious.

"And was Ana okay, after everything that happened?"

I sighed. "I guess, but you know what she's like – holds it all inside; it's real hard to tell what she's thinking. A bit like you, baby. But she said she liked being checked in at the Olympia as 'Mrs. Taylor'."

"Oh, did she indeed?!"

And there it was: a note of jealousy. I have never, _never_ given Gail the slightest reason to feel jealous. I've not hidden anything from her: she knows I went a bit crazy when Lucy and I got divorced. Got drunk a lot. Slept with a lot of women – some of them I didn't even know their names. I didn't want to pretend with her. But she also knows I haven't even looked at another woman since I met her – and I don't want to.

"You… you like Ana, don't you?" she said, quietly. "Well, I'm not surprised; she's very pretty and sweet… and young..."

But I couldn't listen to anymore.

"Gail, don't. Please, baby. Yes, I like Ana. But not _that_ way. I think of her in the same way I think of Sophie – I just want her to be okay; and I want the boss to not fuck it up with her. But you're my woman, babe. Hell, I'd make you Mrs. Taylor in a shot – you know that. There's no-one else I want, Gail. I love you, for fuck's sake."

_Yeah, I know. I'm smooth._

"I… I'll think about it, Jason."

"Fuck! You will?"

She laughed.

"Yes, just thinking, though, okay?"

"Very okay, baby."

So the next day when I took Ana to work, I was surprised when she apologized to me.

"I'm sorry about yesterday and my inappropriate remarks. I hope I didn't get you into trouble."

I frown and look at her in the rearview mirror, and then I realize what she's getting at. The boss must have told her off for talking to me like that. Which is pretty fucking funny when you think about it.

I try to reassure her.

"Miss Steele, I'm rarely in trouble."

"I'm glad to hear it, Taylor," she says sweetly, but actually she looks kinda pissed.

And throughout the day the boss's blood pressure is tested several times. It sounds like Ana wants to go on some conference that involves an overnighter with her sleazeball boss. But I'm with Grey on this one: _over my dead fucking body_.

The tension in the car is on a level with the Camp David talks, except I don't think they ever resolved those with sex, although maybe when Clinton was there… and Kennedy. And I wonder if they had problems with the elevators.

I could have _walked_ up from the basement in the time it takes the boss and Ana to get to the Penthouse using the express elevator.

_Get a fucking room!_

Oh, yeah, the boss has a fucking room. A room for fucking. Jeez, is there any room he hasn't fucked in? And suddenly I really, really don't want to know if he's ever used the staff quarters while I've been away. I don't think so, I mean… that would just be so _wrong_.

_Yeah, and the boss is such a straight up sorta guy_. Oh fuck. I need therapy. It's a good thing I've got Flynn's number on speed dial.

And then I wonder if Flynn ever feels like he needs therapy. Maybe there's a sort of twisted hierarchy of fucked up shrinks. And if you've got the most fucked up patients you get a gong – or a free weekend in the Betty Ford Clinic. Jeez, I wonder what Flynn would win? Or maybe they get sent to isolation clinics when they go crazy – a sort of Anthrax Island for shrinks. I wonder how many of the boss's doctors are there already.

And just as the evening seems to descend into a pleasant and unusual tranquility, I see the shark-eyed queen succubus drive into the garage.

Sawyer gives me the heads up.

"T, a Mrs. Lincoln wants to see Mr. Grey. She doesn't have an appointment."

I can hear the harpy's voice in the background _and she so isn't getting the new Penthouse access code_.

"I'll key her in, Luke. Send her up."

_The boss is really not going to like this_.

I hate doing this to him. He's got his arms wrapped around Ana, and I can see that she's soothing him or reassuring him about something and then they kiss.

I feel like such a fucking creep. I clear my throat and the boss's head snaps up. He looks pissed. Hell, I'd look pissed if I got interrupted like that. But it's the price he pays for being rich, for needing someone like me. Yeah, I totally get that.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Lincoln is on her way up, sir."

"What?"

All I can do is shrug. _Your shit, boss. Over to you._

"Well, this should be interesting," he mutters.

Ana looks _really_ pissed. The boss is right: this is going to be interesting.

"Good evening, Taylor."

"This way, Mrs. Lincoln."

"Always so formal, Taylor."

_Yeah, because I'd rather French kiss a bullfrog than spend time with you, lady._

And I really enjoy, _really fucking enjoy_ seeing the shock on the reptile's face when she sees Ana staring back at her defiantly.

_That's my girl!_

And I leave them to it, because no matter how much I care for Ana, I'm not her father. If I was, I'd be fucking proud of her.

I head back to the office and Sawyer buzzes up.

"T, Miss Steele's Saab has been delivered. Pretty nice ride. I'll get the GPS set up for it."

"Good one, Luke. Thanks."

The Lincoln bitch stays for about half an hour before I have the extreme pleasure of escorting her out. Via the elevator. Although, kicking her bony ass off the balcony would be more rewarding. She's probably gone home to stir her cauldron.

When the boss wanders into his office, he looks tired and pissed. And yet, he just doesn't get that the Lincoln troll preys on his negative feelings. He always looks irritated when he's seen her: for a smart guy, he can be pretty fucking dumb. But I've seen a change in him since Ana arrived. Whether he knows it or not, he has less patience for the hag. _She_ senses it, which is why she's clinging on with every shiny talon she has.

"Sir, Miss Steele's Saab has arrived. Sawyer is fixing the lo-jack now."

"Some good fucking news at last," he mutters. "Thank you, Taylor."

As the boss heads to his study, I decide I've looked at as many monitors as I can stand. I pull my tie free and go to find Gail.

"Has that _woman_ gone?" she says, tightly.

"Yeah, got back on her broomstick and disappeared in a cloud of sulfur."

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least, Jason. I keep thinking she'll turn you into a frog."

"Wouldn't matter if she did, baby, I'd just have to kiss you to get turned back."

"Hmm, well, it is true I kissed a lot of frogs before I met you, Jason."

"A lot?" _That fucking pisses me off_.

She just smiles. "Coq au vin?"

Fuck, I love it when she talks French.

At some point in the night, I wake up. I feel Gail moving restlessly next to me.

"He's playing his piano. Poor Mr. Grey. It's _that woman_. She always upsets him when she comes here."

"Don't worry about it, baby. I don't think it'll be for much longer."

She turns and stares up at me, her fingers tracing over the bristles on my cheek.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because sooner or later the boss will have to choose: her or Ana. And he'll choose Ana."

"I hope you're right, Jason. I really do."

I'm not worried because I know that deep down the boss has already chosen; he just doesn't know it yet. And I've chosen Gail; and I really fucking hope she knows it.

Tuesday starts like an ordinary day.

I'm driving; Sawyer's riding shotgun; Grey's in the back learning that he's perpetually in second place when it comes to morning banter with Ana. And she manages to get in a sly little dig about Sawyer 'spying' on her. Good thing she doesn't know about the surveillance we've got in the ladies' bathroom at SIP. Kidding.

And the day starts really well because I hear the boss tell Ana that the bitch is "in the past". I feel like fucking cheering, but that would be unprofessional. And really uncool. And Sawyer would have a coronary.

I drop off Sawyer and Ana, and take the boss to Grey House. I do all the usual checks and catch up with Welch. Still no sign of the Williams woman. She seems to have gone to ground: she hasn't bought a plane or train ticket; she hasn't used her credit card or an ATM machine. _Someone is shielding her_. And that worries me. A lot.

I do another sweep of Ana's apartment. It kinda bugs me that she doesn't know I'm doing it. If she thought about it, she'd probably realize that's what was going on, but a lot of this stuff she just doesn't want to know. I get that: it's a world she never thought would be part of her life. It's not part of most people's lives – just the rich, fucked up ones.

At 5.45pm I have the car out front waiting for Grey. There are hearts breaking wide open all over Grey House as the word spreads that the boss is off the market. A lot of the women – and a few of the men – are devastated to hear that he has a real-live girlfriend. Andrea told me that we'd have to get in a grief counselor. I think she was joking, but I'm not sure. Olivia hasn't been seen since the word went out. 'Allergies' is the official reason.

At 6pm we're outside SIP. Sawyer's already left to collect some clean clothes from his own apartment and check his mail. He'll be living at Escala for the next few weeks. I've already warned him off Gail, in a completely professional way. _"Put an eyeball out of place and I'll fucking use it for a billiard ball."_ You know, a reasonable, measured approach.

The boss is grinning like a fool. And so's Ana. God, it's good to see. Makes me want to do my happy dance – which looks a lot like me standing still. But it's the thought that counts.

I drive to Ana's apartment and listen in while he talks to Ros about a problem with the Philippines shipment.

I open the door for Ana and she skips out to go check that her friend Ethan is ok. I'm slightly amazed that the boss is letting her be alone with another guy, even for a few seconds. Maybe there is hope for the twisted bastard yet.

Funny word 'hope'. It's so small and insignificant-looking, but it's not. Hope keeps a man alive. And I'm talking from experience.

I sit back in the car, half-listening to Grey's involved conversation. I glance over towards the door of Ana's apartment building, but there's no sign of her.

Grey snaps off his cellphone and starts to look irritated.

We see him at the same time: the Kavanagh kid comes strolling up the street, carrying a heavy travel bag, and spinning a set of keys on his finger. Ana's keys.

My heart freezes as realization floods through me. _Someone let Ana into the apartment_. And I know. _I know_.

I leap out of the car at the same time as Grey. The Kavanagh kid looks up and starts to take a defensive stance; then he recognizes Grey and looks confused.

I snatch Ana's keys out of his hands and draw my gun.

"Wait here!" I snarl at him – at them.

The boss has gone white but he's already running up the stairs.

Fuck, no!

I follow quickly, taking them two at a time.

"Get behind me, sir," I say, urgently

But he doesn't listen. He grabs the keys from me and pulls the door open.

And we see her.

Leila Williams.

With a gun.

Pointed at Ana.

Grey holds out his hand, telling me silently to keep back. Ana's face is surprisingly calm; I think she's in shock. But the boss is only just reining it in; he looks like he could tear Leila apart with his bare hands. Only the fact that Ana is unhurt is keeping him together.

We all stare at each other; I'm less than a heartbeat from using my gun. If Leila makes a move, I'll take her down. If she touches one hair on Ana's head, I'll take her down. If she even looks in Ana's direction, I'll take her down.

I hear the boss whisper, "Kneel" and the bitch drops to her knees.

No, that's not right: I can't call her that. She looks so fucking broken. She's too thin; her eyes are unnaturally flat and expressionless. I've seen that look before – it's when a person's mind has seen too much and it stops functioning. It closes down to protect them. I realize that only part of Leila is there.

She drops the gun and the boss strides over to pick it up, grimacing with disgust. Ana looks sick and horrified. She's staring at Christian and Leila together. It's something she should never have seen: the boss with one of his submissives. Will this be the thing that breaks her?

"Anastasia, go with Taylor."

I holster my weapon and walk towards Ana, my arms held out, as if trying to calm a wild animal.

"Ethan," she murmurs, her pupils black, dilated with fear.

_God, she's strong._ So fucking brave. Even now, her thoughts turn to her friend's safety.

"Downstairs." She stares at Grey, as if she can't understand his words. "Anastasia," he says again, his voice begging her to go. "For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you're told for once in your life and go!"

But she can't. The poor kid is frozen with horror and sympathy and fear and love. It's so fucking obvious. To me, at least. The boss is getting desperate. "Taylor, take Miss Steele downstairs. Now."

"Why?" Her voice is barely audible.

"Go!" he snarls at her. "Back to the apartment. I need to be alone with Leila."

And then I see it. A little spark in Leila's eyes: it's hope.

Ana shouldn't be here; she shouldn't see this. "Miss Steele." She doesn't respond. "Ana!"

I hold my hand out to her, but she can't move. She's still staring at Grey and Leila – at _them_ – together.

"Taylor!"

I scoop Ana into my arms and take her from the room. She lies limply in my arms, her face stiff with horror.

"It's okay, Ana. It's okay," I murmur, quietly.

A soft whimper escapes her.

As soon as I reach the ground floor the Kavanagh kid is all over her.

"Jesus, Ana! What the fuck is going on?"

I set her on her feet and she throws her arms around his neck, relieved to see he's unharmed.

My heart goes out to this amazing child-woman. She's so strong, so brave, so fucking incredible.

Kavanagh is glaring at me like I'm some kind of murderer.

"Who is this guy?"

"Oh, sorry!" she gasps. "This is Taylor. He works with Christian. Taylor, this is Ethan, my roommate's brother."

We nod at each other, the tension still radiating through the lobby. Ana explains the situation to him then turns her big, blue eyes on me.

"Was the apartment checked?"

She wipes a tear and my heart cracks.

"This afternoon."

What can I say to her? I've failed her utterly. I've failed Grey. And what do I do – pass her a fucking handkerchief to wipe her tears. It seems like the only thing I can ever do for her is to wipe her tears away.

"I'm so sorry, Ana. She does seem to have an uncanny ability to evade us."

How fucking pathetic is that? It's as helpful as telling her that I drank half a pint of vodka before my SATs – with a similar fucking result. _I fucked up._

"Ethan and I will go for a quick drink and then head back to Escala," she says quietly, regaining control of herself with astonishing speed.

_But the boss really won't like that_.

Especially after all this shit.

"Mr. Grey wanted you to go back to the apartment," I remind her gently.

"Well, we know where Leila is now," she says bitterly, and I feel ashamed and disgusted with myself knowing that I left her to deal with the crazy woman. I'm fucking _security_. How 'secure' has Ana been?

"Tell Christian we'll see him later."

I try to speak, to tell her how sorry I am again; to beg her to stay where I can keep an eye on her, but no sound comes out.

Her look is judgment enough. I've failed. Failed her.

And she leaves.

I head back upstairs, filled with loathing and anger for Grey, whose fucked up life has brought Ana into danger, but more for myself.

I hear the sounds of bathwater running and Grey is speaking quietly and calmly.

"You're not well, Leila, but I'm going to take care of you. I'll do everything to help you get better, okay."

She doesn't speak but I can hear her humming to herself. She has her arms wrapped around her knees and she's staring into space.

"Can you hear me, Leila?"

Grey's eyes are wide and worried. He sees me and looks slightly relieved.

"Anastasia?"

"She's okay."

He doesn't need to know that she's gone with Kavanagh. Not yet.

"Call Flynn. Get him here."

"Sir."

I walk into the kitchen and pull out my cellphone.

"Edna, it's Jason Taylor. Can you tell Dr Flynn that we've found Leila Williams?"

"How is she?"

"Not good. She'll need hospitalization. I'm no doctor, but she looks pretty spaced out."

"I'll tell him, Mr Taylor."

I give her the address and she promises that Flynn will be here within the hour.

I phone Gail, giving her an update. She's shocked. Of course she's fucking shocked.

"Look, Ana is coming back with a friend – brother of her roommate. She was… just look after her until we get home, okay, baby?"

"Of course I will. Oh, Jason, it's so… are you alright?"

"I'm fine, baby. I gotta go. But I'll be home soon."

Reluctantly, I head back into the main room.

The boss is coaxing Leila into the bathroom. Even from across the room I can see that she's filthy. Her hair is lank and greasy and her clothes look as if she's been sleeping on the streets. Maybe that's why we couldn't find her.

When she doesn't respond, the boss picks her up in his arms. His gesture is almost loving, although I can see the tension on his face. And I remember a time when Leila was the one who was full of hope: laughing and playful. Really fucking nosy, too, but not _bad_. Not cruel – not like the Lincoln bitch.

And I keep seeing more casualties from the train-wreck that is the boss's life. Leila is the latest casualty and I hope, _I really fucking hope_, that Ana is strong enough to survive.

He sets Leila on her feet and undresses her slowly, talking to her the whole time. I feel like a voyeur but I stay for two reasons: in case she becomes violent; and to protect the boss from any accusation she might decide to make at a later date. Because, let's face it, undressing her like this, he's leaving himself open in a pretty fucking perilous way. If this whole thing ever got to court, Grey wouldn't have a leg to stand on – he'd be ruined. He'd face jail time. The facts are: he had a deviant sexual relationship with a woman who then threatens his girlfriend with a weapon; Leila is found naked and distressed and totally unable to distinguish fact from fantasy. What jury in the world wouldn't find him guilty of molestation at the very least?

His gesture is caring, but he is risking fucking everything – and he doesn't even see it. His instinct is to take care of her. He was her Dom – he owes it to her. But how many people would really understand that?

And it all goes back to Elena fucking Lincoln. She got him into this fucked up lifestyle. But Grey is the one who's paid the price. And paid. And paid.

Christ, I hope Flynn gets here soon.

He lowers her into the tub and begins to wash her hair. Carefully, he pours cups of warm water over her head and rubs in some shampoo. Ana's shampoo. It seems so fucking wrong.

All the time he's talking to her, about her painting, about music, about the songs she likes.

She murmurs wordlessly and I'm not even sure if she hears him.

Suddenly she says, "What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday, Leila," he says, quietly.

"Why is it Tuesday? What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday."

"But why? Why is it Tuesday?"

"It's going to be okay, Leila. I'll take care of you."

"Take care. Take care. Take care. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Hmm. Mmm. Mmm."

Grey looks at me helplessly.

"Flynn's on his way, sir," I repeat, uselessly.

He nods and continues washing her.

"Can you get her some clothes?" he says, in a whisper. "Ana's room is on the right."

It chills me to think that Leila will be wearing Ana's clothes, but having gone this far, what the fuck does it matter now?

I feel so fucking rancid going through Ana's closet, like some creepy stalker. I pull out some clothes and hope they're not Ana's favorites. That would be a sacrilege. _I'm sorry, Ana. So fucking sorry_.

I help the boss to dress Leila. It reminds me of dressing Sophie when she was a little girl, trying to stuff arms and legs into holes that all seem to be in the wrong places.

But Leila isn't a little girl: she's a full grown woman. A broken woman.

The front door buzzes. The boss jumps and I nearly fucking shoot myself; but Leila doesn't even react. She's somewhere else, completely detached from her mind, and I can't help wondering if she'll ever find her way back.

I open the door for Flynn. He has a woman with him in pale blue scrubs.

"Hello, Jason. This is Nurse Wroska."

We shake hands briefly.

"They're on the first floor."

"How is she?"

"Lost."

"How's Christian?"

I shrug. "Coping."

"And Ana?"

"Shocked. She's with a friend."

"I see."

We walk in and the boss is carrying Leila to the couch.

Flynn smiles in a friendly way.

"Hello, Leila. I'm John. I'm a friend of Christian's. I'm going to help you."

"Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. What day is it?"

"Tuesday: and a new day for you, Leila. Do you like Tuesdays?"

"Mmm. Tuesday? Is it Friday yet? I see him on a Friday. I see Master on a Friday."

Flynn and the boss exchange a glance. Grey looks tortured. _So he fucking should be._

"Leila, I'm going to give you something that will make you feel a bit sleepy. It'll help you to sleep."

"Mmm. Mmm. Is it Friday?"

Flynn takes a syringe out of his bag and slides it into her arm.

And suddenly she turns her eyes to the boss and smiles. "I love you," she says. "My Dark Angel."

Grey looks utterly shocked.

We're all relieved when the drugs start to work and her eyes close. She's still smiling.

"I'll carry her," says the boss in a choked voice.

He wraps hers in a blanket and picks her up carefully, lovingly, then carries her out to the waiting ambulance which is really a large cruiser with heavily-tinted windows. _The boss still cares about being discreet._ Or maybe that's Flynn.

Flynn and the nurse climb in with them and I follow in the SUV.

I wonder where Ana is.

_God, Ana, I'm so sorry._

The hospital is a quiet nightmare. Sorry… _the treatment facility_. Wide, green lawns stretch up towards a white building. It's not a state-run place for crazies – it's the best that money can buy. Of course. You can be fucked up in comfort. Even the staff act like they're on Thorazine. Calm. All calm. Too fucking calm.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle uncomfortably and I can't wait to get the fuck out. From the look on his face, Grey feels the same. I wonder if he ever got sent to a place like this when he was a kid. Drugs to make your sleep; drugs to make you wake up; drugs to make you forget. It's chilling what can happen to people. You can lose your job, lose your home, lose every fucking thing and you're still you. But if you lose your mind… what's left?

Flynn lays a reassuring hand on the boss's shoulder.

"You should go now, Christian. I'll make sure Leila settles in. She'll get the help she needs here. There's nothing more you can do."

"No, I'll stay, John. She seems… calmer… when I'm here."

"Christian, right now Leila is medicated and she's sleeping. She'll be watched and assessed. She's exhausted. Let her sleep and I'll come back and see her in the morning. And I strongly, _strongly_ suggest that you don't try to see her. Let me talk to her first."

"No, I should stay. I'll…"

"Christian, this isn't where you belong. Ana will need you now."

The boss's eyes go wide with shock and he runs his hands through his hair.

"Fuck! Ana!"

He turns to look at me.

"Where's Ana?"

"She said she was going for a drink and then back to Escala, sir."

He looks relieved and picks up his cellphone.

"Sir, she left her purse and cell in the car. We should go back now, sir."

"Yes. Fuck, yes!" He looks utterly bewildered, then fights to pull himself together. "Thank you, Taylor. John, call me tomorrow?"

"Of course, Christian. You've done everything you can for her. We'll speak soon."

The boss gets in the car and I drive fucking fast all the way back to Escala.

But when we get there, Gail is waiting anxiously in the entrance hall.

"Where's Miss Steele?" says Grey, searching about him, his eyes desperate.

"I'm sorry, Mr Grey. She hasn't come home yet."

_Oh no. Ana! Where the fuck are you?_

**I've just written my first 'adult romance', 'The Education of Sebastian', so if you like my writing, I hope you'll give it a go. It's on Amazon and Smashwords. Soon it will be on Book-Baby. Thanks!**


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 – Indecent Proposal

The boss is on the verge of losing it, and I'm not far behind.

Ana has gone AWOL, last seen moving in a northerly direction with the Kavanagh kid. And I'm too wound up to even think how much that sounds like a character in a B-Western.

She's left her cell and her purse and I still have the keys to her apartment. But that doesn't mean she's untraceable – not to me.

"Sir, do you have Kavanagh's cellphone number?"

He whirls around and stares at me and I can see the question slowly penetrating through his fear that Ana has gone – that she's finally left him.

"No, but he phoned her so the number must still be on her cell."

We reach for her phone at the same time but I let the boss get there first. I recognize he needs to do something. He scrolls through her calls and redials. After a second he tosses the phone on the table.

"Fucker turned his cell off," he says, bitterly.

_Irritating, but not a problem: a bit like the boss himself._

"I'll get Welch to ping his number, but it'll take some time to get organized."

"Fuck, yes! Do it. Top priority!"

_As if I fucking needed to be told that_.

It's a myth that you can't track someone if their cell is turned off. You'd have to remove the damn battery for that to be the case. Several kidnap victims have been located by their cell being pinged. In fact, it's a federal mandate for cells to become GPS capable so that 911 operators can locate emergency calls.

Yeah, and I bet the guy who sold you your cell didn't tell you that. The cellphone companies can find you anytime they want. Just like the Lone Gunmen predicted.

All Welch has to do is send out a signal to Kavanagh's cell – kind of like SONAR echo-location. Then we'll have the longitude and latitude to within a few feet. I say 'all' – it needs the kind of software interface that doesn't come cheap but Welch has it. Of course. It'll just take a while. Yeah, and it's slightly illegal without special clearance, documentation or a court order. Okay, that's a lot illegal. Not that I give a shit: guess that's why they kicked me out of the Boy Scouts. Or it could have been because of that thing with the Girl Scouts.

Despite knowing that we'll locate Ana within the hour, the boss's manic energy is a severe, fucking irritant.

I'm relieved to follow Welch's instructions and head towards a bar just opposite Ana's apartment. But then I spot her leaving with Kavanagh and she's weaving around like Bambi on rollerskates. I decide not to intercept, just make sure she's safe.

I trail them back to Escala and discreetly overtake, arriving back at Grey's apartment a minute before them.

I phone Grey to give him the news that she's on her way back, and stay on the line as I sneak into the apartment and hide behind the potted plants. Well, I would if Grey had any. _Yup, trained in stealth and concealment._

I hear the elevator doors open and position myself so I can intervene if the boss hits supersonic in the first two seconds. Right on cue, Ana stumbles into the main room looking distinctly fuzzy around the edges.

I breathe a sigh of relief and hope that the boss isn't going to hurl his cell at the wall – I've only just worked out how to use the fucker. The phone, not the boss: he didn't come with a user-manual, or if he did, it's in fucking Klingon.

"She's here!" he snarls into the handset which has been umbilically attached to him ever since I said Ana was on her way back.

And then sweet endearments flow from his lips.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

_Nope. Learning has not taken place._

"Have you been drinking?"

He sounds appalled. I don't know why. Hell, he's lucky Ana doesn't self-medicate more often.

"A bit," she slurs.

She's safe: that's all that matters.

I retreat to the office and give Welch the happy news – without edits – that he can call off the cavalry. Although I suspect Custer's Last Stand is about to take place in the main room: I really, really don't want to be there.

I slink off to find Gail.

"Hey, babe. Ana's home."

"Oh, thank goodness! Mr Grey must have been beside himself."

"Honey, he was born beside himself and just got weirder."

"That's not fair, Jason. You know how much he cares for Ana."

"I know, but sometimes I'm not sure he tells _her_ that. And after what she's been through tonight…"

Gail sighs. "You're right about that. Oh dear."

I head for the refrigerator and hunt down a beer. I'm definitely feeling like self-medicating after the day I've had, too. I don't want to dwell on watching Leila's breakdown – it's too painful. And I know that I'll have to face the music about letting her break into Ana's apartment.

"Gail, I really fucked up today. Badly."

"Jason, you did everything you could: it's not your fault that Leila got into Ana's apartment. What were you supposed to do? What could you have done that you didn't do? Please tell me."

"I should have stopped her!"

"So you say: I'm waiting for you to tell me how. How were you supposed to know she had a key? How were you supposed to watch the apartment 24/7?"

"I should have had the fucking locks changed at least!"

"And that would simply have made Ana fearful – and who's to say Leila wouldn't have got a copy of _that_ key?"

"I should have…"

But she stops my angry words with a kiss. I want her to distract me. I want her to drag my mangled thoughts away from this torrent of shit – but I can't.

I place my hands on her waist and pull back.

"Gail, I'm going to resign. I'll tell Grey in the morning."

"Jason, no!"

"I have to, baby. I took my eye off the ball. Ana could have been hurt; hell, she could have been killed. I'm supposed to be fucking security. How secure has Grey been? How secure has Ana been? I fucked up. I just want to know if… will you come with me? Fuck, I hate to ask, baby, but you're my life; I can't live without you."

"Oh, Jason! Please don't do this to yourself! You're a _good_ man; a _strong_ man; and Mr Grey will _never_ find anyone as loyal as you. But you're human: you're not a damn machine and you're only one man. You simply _can't_ be everywhere 24 hours a day. Mr Welch had more than a dozen people working to find Leila: they couldn't find her with all their resources. How were you supposed to do anything differently? Darling, you did everything you could: Mr Grey knows that and Ana knows that. You _can't_ leave them now – they need you. More than ever. _I _need you."

I shake my head. Her words are meant to soothe me, I know this, but she doesn't understand. _I don't fuck up_.

"I have to go, Gail. I'm too close – to him, to her, to both of them. I missed things, over and over. I don't know – maybe I need a fucking change – away from all this craziness."

She holds her hand to my cheek and my head sinks into her warm, soft neck.

"Jason Triton Taylor! Don't you dare give up on me now!"

And she slaps me on the chest – hard.

_Fuck! That hurt!_

I step back and rub my eyes tiredly.

"I'm not giving up on _you,_ babe. You're the one good thing I've got going for me. But I can't do _this_ anymore."

I wave my hand around, indicating the apartment, Grey, all of _this_.

"You're not a quitter."

"For fuck's sake, Gail! You're not hearing me! _I can't fucking do this anymore!_"

"Oh really! Stop being such a drama queen!"

_Did she just call me…?_

"What do you mean?"

"Jason: for four years you've worked for Mr Grey. Has one word leaked out about his, um, unusual lifestyle? Has he ever been in danger from a stalker? Have any Press managed to get near him without his permission? Don't bother to reply, because we both know the answer is 'no'. A large part of that is down to you. Mr Grey _chose_ his lifestyle, which is extremely risky given his public presence and standing in the business world. You have moved heaven and earth to protect him. But it was Mr Grey who brought Leila Williams into his life and into his home; it was Mr Grey who wished to keep security unobtrusive for Anastasia; and throughout all this, throughout what you call this 'craziness', the one constant that he has had, the one constant that he has relied on, is you. You, Jason. Not me, not Dr Flynn, not his family, and certainly not that Lincoln woman – it's been you. If you leave now, you'll be letting him down and you'll be letting yourself down."

"Gail…"

"For goodness sake shut up and listen to me for once, you wonderful, annoying, irritating, stupid, stupid man!"

_Oh, fucking ouch!_

"I'm stupid twice over?"

"That's a conservative estimate, Jason. Look, I'm sure if you talk it over with Mr Grey he'll be appalled at the idea of you leaving. He'll never agree to it."

"He'll have no fucking choice!"

"Oh, get over yourself! You're not perfect, you never were. As if I didn't already know that. It's hardly a secret, Jason."

"Gail…"

"And if you agree to wait and talk to Mr Grey… then I'll agree to marry you."

_Wow, that was weird. I could have sworn she just said she'd marry me. Have I got cheese in my ears instead of wax? It's like a fine lady swapping her painted on moles for mange*. It's like hearing bad vocabulary that's as bad as, like, whatever._

"Wait, what did you just say?"

"I love you, Jason. I love you more than sun and air and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

I stare at her, utterly mute. _Yeah, I know: I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. Then I climbed back up and did it again – just to be thorough._

Please, please let me have heard right. God, I love this woman so much; I want her so badly: today, tomorrow, forever.

"Why now?" I stammer out the question, but I need to know. "I've asked you a thousand times to marry me and you've always said no."

She smiles at me softly, her deep blue eyes glowing with love.

"Tonight you needed me to say yes. Why, are you having second thoughts?"

"Fuck no!"

"You're so eloquent, Jason."

"Yeah, I know, baby."

And then I kissed her. _Yeah, I'm not completely stupid_.

Her lips are warm and soft and wet – she's like a freakin' drug to me. However much she gives me, I want more. Just as I feel that my swollen, happy heart will burst through my ribcage, she pulls back, breathless, and rests her head on my chest.

"I'll do anything, _anything_ to make you happy, baby."

"I know that, Jason. That's why I said 'yes'. Right now I want you go and check on Ana and Mr Grey."

"Okay, I'll… _What? You want me to… what?_ I'm not going out there! It's like asking me to go see what that lil bitty bit of smoke on Mount St Helens is all about! The boss will be in hyperdrive by now. No fucking way!"

"Jason! The _very first thing I ask you to do_…"

_Ah, hell: I know where that sentence is going_. It's my own fucking fault for loving a clever woman.

"Fine. Fine. I'll go look. But if I come back with my ass kicked through my front teeth, _you're _paying for the orthodontist."

"Jason, Mr Grey covers our dental, so you have nothing to worry about. Now go see if they're okay."

I wander towards the main room, my brain still on fire with the knowledge that Gail has finally, _finally_ accepted my proposal – that one day soon, she'll really be _mine_.

And then I hear yelling.

_Oh, fuck._

"Oh for crying out loud – no! I am not going to go!"

Ana is screaming at him. I think he likes it because he's not screaming back. Weird.

"Really?"

"What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?"

Well, they haven't killed each other; they haven't hit each other – not even in a freaky, kinky way. They don't need me so I'll just skulk back into the shadows.

"There is one thing you could do?" he whispers.

_The dance of the seven veils in a leather thong? Chinese water torture on an intimate part of his body? _

"What?" she snarls at him.

_She's going to regret asking that_.

"Marry me."

_WHAT_

_THE_

_FUCK?!_

_That fucking bastard! That's MY fucking line! And how come the fucking world stopped turning and I'm the last to get the memo?_

I shuffle back to the staff quarters seriously pissed off.

"Well?" says Gail, her hands on her hips, looking all cute and bossy.

"They're okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yup."

"Well, what were they doing? Jason! What happened? Tell me? I _know_ there's something you're not telling me."

"Grey asked Ana to marry him."

She takes a deep breath and a huge smile breaks out.

"He did?"

"Yeah, he was on his knees."

"Oh, that's so romantic!"

"I don't know about that: she was on her knees, too."

"Excuse me? Ana was on her knees, too? They were both on their knees?"

"Yeah, maybe she lost a contact lens."

"Jason! She doesn't wear them. What was she doing?"

"Hell! I don't know, Gail – looking for the center of the Earth?"

Gail skewers me with a look. "What's the matter? Why are you so annoyed?"

_Ah, hell. Pay or play._

"You finally get around to saying 'yes', which made me think the world was about to end, and then the boss goes and fucking _copies_ me."

Gail starts to giggle.

"I can think or worse role models, Jason, but I don't remember you getting down on your knees."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure about that, baby?"

She blushes. "Well, not to ask me to marry you."

_That is true_.

"Are you sulking, Jason?"

_Maybe._

"Are you pouting, Jason?"

_It has been known._

"Do you want me to kiss it better?"

_Has the dog got a boner?_

* Credit to Jonathan Swift

**And a big thank you to everyone who's bought 'The Education of Sebastian'. I really appreciate it – especially all the lovely comments you've made. Cheers!**


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29 – Fight Club

The boss is smiling. _That's gotta hurt_.

I've just come back from dropping Ana at work. Clint Bowyer has nothing on me as I cut through the morning rush-hour traffic and slid to a halt outside SIP.

Ana looked a little pale. Well, she always looks pale – I don't think it was my driving; she's not that much of a _girl_. I didn't even do a handbrake turn – not a donut in sight. I put it down to the fact that she didn't get much sleep last night.

I heard the boss screaming in the early hours, but I figured Ana could handle it. She's been handling a lot lately; I hope she doesn't break. But she's a helluva lot tougher than she looks, Miss Steele. Like Gail. _My _Gail.

Jeez, I can't believe she finally said 'yes'! Wow, married. Again. Forever, this time. I can't wait to tell Sophie. Shit, I suppose I'll have to tell the ex-bitch. I mean, she's still a bitch, but she's my ex-b… Whatever.

But my good mood fades when I remember I have to hand in my resignation this morning, despite Gail trying to persuade me otherwise; I know it's the right thing to do. It's the _only_ thing to do. I never thought I'd say it, but I'm going to miss working here.

I'm momentarily distracted by the thought that it's weird Grey not going to work on a week day; makes me feel like I'm cutting school, too. At least I'm suited and booted; the boss is loafing about in old jeans. Weird, Part Deux. But he's in his office, so I take a deep breath and knock on the door.

He looks up. "Taylor?"

"Sir: about yesterday… the Williams woman…"

"Yes?"

I take a step inside.

"She should never have got into Miss Steele's apartment. It shouldn't have happened. And she got in here, too. I apologize unreservedly and…" _here goes_, "I wish to offer my resignation. Forthwith." _I may be a pussy, but I can still do big words_.

He stares at me, then rubs his face tiredly.

"Take a seat, Taylor," he says, waving his hand at the spare chair.

"I'd rather stand, sir."

He frowns. "Fine. I'm not accepting your resignation." He pauses. "Was there anything else?"

My jaw is hanging so far open, the boss can probably see my tonsils.

"Sir?" I croak, but in a manly way.

"I don't accept your resignation. Leila – Miss Williams – she's clever, manipulative and _I _was the one who let her into my life – into Miss Steele's life. I don't blame you for what happened. It was…" he shrugs, "inevitable."

"But… safety was compromised. When I saw the gun…"

A look of horror repressed shivers across his face.

"I'll be leaving for Grey House in 30 minutes," he snaps. And his gaze flicks back to his computer screen.

"Yes, sir." _Over and fucking out._

I walk away dazed and a little confused.

Gail is waiting for me.

"Well?"

"He wouldn't accept my resignation…" I mumble, scratching the back of my head with my thumb.

Gail smiles. "Of course he wouldn't."

"But…"

"He values you, Jason. Like I do. Well, not exactly like I do," she smiles. "At least I hope not!"

"But…"

"So, whatever you say, you're staying."

"Is anyone going to let me finish a senten…"

"No. And Ana wouldn't want you to go either, Future Husband."

She kisses me, effectively putting an end to my arguments, the verbal ones anyway; the mental ones continue to torture me.

I think about her words throughout the day. Why would Grey want me to stay after I've fucked up? I wonder briefly if it's because I know so much about him – all his dirty little secrets; all his dirty little women. But that's not it, I know it. Grey would hand me my balls on a plate before he let that happen, but what worries me more is that Gail would help him. No, the only answer that I can come up with is that Grey blames himself more than he blames me. He said it in his office: he was the one who let Leila into his life. _But I should have kept her out_.

I shake my head hard enough to rearrange my brain cells: hell, if I don't stop this self-flagellation it'll be _me_ screaming about my demons in the middle of the night.

And I start to breathe easier.

I call Welch for an update: Grey is proceeding with his intention to purchase the freehold estate of Ana's apartment building – well, Miss Kavanagh's apartment building. Then it'll be secured with a state-of-the-art security system. I wouldn't be surprised if the boss doesn't add DNA-fingerprinting to the security's must-have list. Nah, probably just retinal scanning. Huh, the Etruscans used to use the intestines of animals to predict the future. Kind of like playing the stock markets – I reckon Grey might go for that. And I can guarantee it'll be the only mid-price apartment building in the Pike Market District with that level of protection. Ana will figure it out in about 20 seconds. I wonder how much longer after that it'll take her to rip the boss a new one. I give him 10 seconds – unless he can seduce her first. It's even money at the moment.

Welch also informs me that the Williams woman is being held at a secure psychiatric facility on the outskirts of the city. She'll be under surveillance, of course. Now she's out of the way, I can feel a micron of sympathy for her. She looked so broken.

And I know how easy it is for that thin veneer of self to be fractured: I've seen it happen. None of us know how far we can be pushed, how much can be taken from us, before we snap – the elastic shield that protects the core of a person. Do I know? Does Grey? Do any of us?

I told Ana that Grey was a good man. Why do I still think that after everything I've seen and heard? Easy. Psychology 101: because I've seen the face of evil – and it's not Grey. No, not him.

The rest of the day passes quietly, for which I'm eternally grateful. Working for the Master of Misery is draining.

Gail texts me, and her message makes me smile – either that or my face just got cramp. We talked last night, and in view of the boss's declaration to Ana, we're keeping our own news to ourselves. Suits me – it's no-one else's business. Of course, I'll have to tell Grey eventually – maybe in a few days when things are calmer – and when Gail and I can work out a free afternoon to get married.

I don't need anything big: been there, done that. The ex-bitch was dressed in enough white lace to make curtains for a retirement village, and her relatives drank themselves into a blind stupor. The after-dinner speeches turned into an after-dinner free-for-all: ex-bitch's relatives 0: Marines 3.

And then I wonder if Gail would like a big wedding. I don't think so, but women and weddings are a strange and mysterious alchemy. Damn it: I'll have to be nice to Gail's sister.

Barney stumbles into my office – literally falls on his ass – and lies there, blinking up at my ceiling, interrupting my musings on whether or not there's a word that describes homicide of a sister-in-law.

"Huh, that plaster looks kind of Bosonic. Cool."

"Lying down on the job again, Barney?"

He sits up and blinks as if he's surprised to see me sitting at my desk in my office on a work day.

"Hey, Mr. T. Nice suit."

"Something you wanted to tell me, Barney?"

"Oh sure. Argon suppression system has been installed. We'll be coordinating an isolated test over the weekend. Mr. Welch has vetted the technical staff and there haven't been any alerts: I'll need limited access for staff – argon is 38% denser than air – I don't want any but authorized personnel or they could be accidentally asphyxiated: that would be a bummer."

"I'll see to it, Barney."

"Thanks, Mr. T."

"Make it so."

He blinks again, smiles, and gives me a Vulcan salute.

I think I made his day.

Andrea calls me to say that Grey is leaving at six.

Since Ana came into his life, we've both been leaving the office a lot earlier. I could get used to that.

Traffic is light and we get to SIP a couple of minutes before 6.15pm. The light is soft and still bright, and pavement cafés are filling up with friends meeting, and people stopping for a coffee or a beer on their way home. The season for sitting outdoors is short in Seattle – so we make the most of it. Okay, damn it, I admit it. I'm so fucking happy I think I just heard birds singing. What the hell is happening to me?

The boss is smiling so much he could be auditioning for a toothpaste advertisement. Fuck, I need sunglasses.

The building door opens and I see Ana. Her eyes are wide, the pupils dilated – and then she collapses.

Adrenaline shoots through me, spurring my body to speed. I'm out of the car so fast, I leave my breath behind. Grey is right beside me and skids to a halt, sinking to his knees at her feet.

"Ana! Ana! What's wrong?"

She doesn't respond, her face frozen with fear.

_What happened? What the fuck happened to her? Ana!_

Grey shakes her gently, an edge of desperation in his touch.

"Ana, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

We both scan her body for any signs of injury. I can't see any blood – that's good.

"Jack," she whispers shakily.

_That fucker!_

An icy fury surges through me and I fight to keep it in check. I look at Grey and we exchange a look laced with meaning. He nods jerkily, and the dogs of war are unleashed.

Hyde is going down.

I rip open the building's front door and race inside. But I don't need to hunt down the bastard scum: he's right in front of me.

He's cupping his balls, a look of pain painted across his face. But when he sees me his lip curls.

"You! I knew I'd seen you before. You're with _him_, with that fucking bitch! She assaulted me! She kicked me in the balls! I'm going to fire her ass. You tell him! She's history! She's finished! I'll tell everyone that she's a fucking little whore who came onto me and…"

I reach my limit and control flies away.

I slice the blunt edge of my hand against his windpipe and watch as the oxygen ceases to enter his lungs. His face turns red, then purple, his breath attempting to bubble up through the constriction.

Just a little more force and his windpipe would have been crushed. Perhaps I have more control than I thought. I watch dispassionately as he struggles to breathe, his lips turning blue, and he sinks to his knees. My humanitarian urges win over and I kick him in the guts, taking pleasure in hearing his breath whoosh out of his lungs. See, I'm helping: he's breathing again. Well, gasping.

His body curls into a tight ball. It's a tricky angle, but while he's down I rabbit-punch his left kidney. He shrieks wordlessly. I hit him again and the sound cuts off.

I crouch down next to him.

"You've fucked up, Hyde. Big time. Grey owns this company; he owns your sorry ass."

Hyde blinks up at me, tears leaking from his eyes, snot dribbling from his nostrils.

"He gave you a chance: he does that – gives people chances. Even though he knew about you and your other assistants…"

His eyes open wide in horror, then something dark passes behind them and the wall comes down. He looks away.

"Grey gave you the benefit of the doubt, because he's a good man. You're nothing; you're less than nothing. Even if you knew that you were nothing that would be something, but you don't. Now, listen carefully, I'm only going to say this once because unlike Grey, I don't give second chances: you fucking touch Miss Steele again, I'll fucking kill you."

I kick him the ribs to emphasize my point, then stand back.

"Now get the fuck up."

From my peripheral vision, I see Grey crashing into the lobby. His face is twisted with anger and his eyes are dark, feral, burning with fury. His fists are clenched and I can see that he wants to throw himself at Hyde. Yeah, I'd like to see that. Except I can't. It's my job to keep him safe and I'm very good at my job. Well, I used to be. And I can't let the boss risk everything he's worked for on this sorry sack of shit.

I stand in front of Grey and put my hands up in a warning.

"No, sir," I say, calmly. "I've taken care of that. Be the CEO. Hand him his ass on a fucking silver plate."

Grey's breath comes in shuddering gasps and he holds himself rigidly, but I can see the force of my words sinking through him. Control: that's what he does best.

Grey breathes deeply and I watch the steely coldness fill him.

"Gross. Moral. Turpitude," he spits out. "To wit: 'conduct that is considered contrary to community standards of justice, honesty or good morals'. That applies to you, Hyde. You assaulted a female member of staff; you threatened her with the termination of her contract if she did not offer you…" the words stick in his throat, "sexual favors; you sexually harassed and assaulted Miss Steele – she is considering pressing charges."

We both know she won't, but that's beside the point.

"I deem you a danger to female staff in this building. You will leave immediately. You will not return. You will be paid up until today. You will not receive severance pay. You will not receive a notice period. You will not receive a reference and I will make it my professional duty to inform any future employer of the reason for your sudden departure."

_Hyde is so screwed_.

We're interrupted by the building's sorry security. I narrow my eyes at him. _Where the fuck were you ten minutes ago when Miss Steele was being assaulted?_

He opens his eyes wide and his hand moves towards his hip. _Too fucking slow_.

I take two steps towards him. "Mr Grey's personal protection," I snap, handing him my business card. "Mr Grey is the owner of SIP, and this piece of shit," I point to Hyde, "has just had his ass fired for assault on a female member of staff."

The man straightens up.

"Good."

_Okay, wasn't expecting that reply._

"Excuse me?"

"Well, Mr…" he looks down at my card, "Taylor: I'm glad you caught him. I had my suspicions but the bastard was clever. None of the others…" he clears his throat and looks at me sideways, "none of the other ladies would say a word. Not to me. I mean, I suspected… and they were nice girls, but they never said nothing. I'm glad you've got him."

He spits on the floor. _Charming_.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish."

I study the man's face for any signs of brown-nosing or self-justification, but all I see is a personal sense of justice done. I scan his name-badge.

"Thank you, Stanlawski. Then please escort this shit-bag to his office so he can clear his desk. Make sure he doesn't touch anything else. He's not to turn on his computer; he's not to print out any files; he's not to take any company files with him; he's not to remove any flashdrives or computer disks or any company property; he's not to go to the fucking bathroom by himself – understand; he touches nothing belonging to SIP: personal effects only."

"Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir."

He leads Hyde away and I turn my attention to Grey.

"Sir, we need to get copies of the CCTV tapes. You won't want anyone else to see him… assaulting Miss Steele."

His jaw clenches and his eyes flash dangerously.

"Do it."

"Barney needs to know," I add, quietly.

"Fuck!"

He pulls out his cell and calls Sullivan.

A quarter-of-an-hour later, we're finished.

Stanislawski escorts Hyde back down to the lobby. I go through the box of his personal effects and empty his pockets, too. The search is deliberately humiliating. Good.

Hyde remains emotionless, but his eyes flicker constantly between me and Grey; he doesn't speak again.

"We're done, sir," I say to the boss, quietly.

He turns around and faces us, wielding Hyde's guilt like a branding iron.

"You won't hurt any more women."

And I wonder if the boss is talking about Hyde or himself.

Stanislawski escorts Hyde from the building and I walk out with Grey. Ana's in the front passenger seat of the Audi, so he's going to drive, of course.

I watch Hyde crawl into his cab, like the bottom-feeding scum-sucker he is. I wish I could have kicked the shit out of him and made him eat it. I'd like to have beaten his teeth into skull. I'd like to have broken every bone in his sick, loathsome body.

It's a good thing I don't have anger management issues.

The car phone rings. Barney is on the case. That kid might be all kinds of strange, but he knows his fucking job.

"Sir, it's done, but I need to talk to you about what else I found on Mr. Hyde's computer," he says, nervously.

_What the fuck?_ The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I glance at Ana; she looks blank and oblivious. But she's not.

"Are you talking to me?" Ana whispers to Grey.

"No," he mutters sullenly.

_In the name of all that's holy – my boss is a fucking jackass!_

His girl, the love of his miserable life, has just gone through a traumatic experience and instead of wrapping her in the safety of his arms, he sulks, he pouts, he scowls. Jeez, if I didn't know better, I'd expect him to go to his bedroom and rearrange his Marvel Comics collection. _Fucking child!_

But that's kind of the point, isn't it. Grey is a 6' 1", 180 pound adolescent – with great toys.

I shake my head and wonder if there's a full moon tonight.

**Sorry it's been a while, life, holidays etc, and finishing the sequel to 'The Education of Sebastian'. Thanks for your support. Truly.**


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30, Near Dark 

Ana is going to see the boss's shrink after work: I don't know if that's brave or plumbing the depths of sanity. Then a third option occurs to me: she's cracked under the strain of dating the poster child for SAMHSA*. I guess it'll work out; the boss knows that anyone who dates him has to be half-baked.

In fact, working for Grey should come with a health-warning. Okay, so I'd be bored shitless and witless with the typical personal security jobs – the kind where you spend so much time sitting on your ass that it starts to fit the shape of your seat. But one calm day a week wouldn't be so bad.

I had thought that when we found the Williams woman things would quiet down, but now that fucker Hyde is giving my synapses a work-out.

Firstly, he's lucky I didn't maim the fucker. When I saw Ana, I had a real Corleone moment and seriously considered cutting off the bastard's balls and making him eat them. Heh heh – meatballs. Jeez, I'm so funny I'm laughing my ass off. No, wait, it's still there. Huh. Must be losing my touch.

But when the boss saw Hyde on the floor of SIP's reception, I could tell from the look on his face that he was having the same sort of homicidal thoughts as me. And that's what held me back from doing more than kicking the shit out of Hyde: the look on Grey's face. I knew I had one chance to stop him before he killed the fucker with his bare hands, and smiled while he did it. That's no exaggeration: I've only seen that sort of silent, murderous fury once before and if Grey had started, he wouldn't have stopped. It was pretty fucking scary, and I'm no pussy.

I thought we'd dealt with Hyde that evening, but then Barney came up with all this shit on the fucker's work computer. For the last few weeks, he's been stalking the boss online. I mean, the intel he'd found out so quickly was impressive, if he wasn't a such a sick fucker who needed his ass handing to him. The point is that Hyde isn't dumb, much as I'd like to believe otherwise. The information he's acquired suggests some long-term stratagem. I don't like that; I really don't fucking like that at all.

For now, Welch has eyes and ears on Hyde. We're all hoping he'll disappear, like the good little ass-wipe he is, but something tells me that it won't happen. I can smell it, like a sixth sense. Or maybe that's one of the five: whatever. I have a bad vibe about him. That pisses me off. So for now, Welch is assholes and elbows, keeping tabs on Hyde.

Amazingly, Ana doesn't seem traumatized by what happened to her. She's one tough lil' gal. Reminds me of Gail. It's probably because Ana was able to fight back – she didn't suffer passively. A 21 year old girl, all five-four of her, 110 pounds, took down that asshole. I couldn't have been prouder.

Next time I get to spend the weekend with Sophie, I'll show here some moves, in case any second-graders give her grief. Can't start preparing for that shit too soon, in my opinion. Is seven too young to start her gun-handling training? Naw, I can take her down the range. Better do some self-defense training, too. Her mom will hate it and knowing Princess Sophie, she'll probably shoot the shit out of her Barbie dolls, if she's anything like her old man. Not that I have Barbie dolls – I'm more a GI Joe kinda guy. Was. _Was_ a GI Joe kinda guy. I mean, when I was a kid.

But for now, I've got the evening off, with nothing to do but remind Gail why she's agreed to marry me. And all the things I plan to do to her. Decisions, decisions.

"Hi honey, I'm home," I call out, pulling off my tie as I stroll into the staff quarters.

"Yes, dear. I have your pipe and slippers coming right up."

_Damn, I love this woman_. Hmm, maybe she was kidding about the pipe and slippers. I don't smoke, for one thing, and slippers? Do I _sound_ like a slippers kinda man? Puh-leez.

"Something smells good, baby."

"Lasagna and salad. You've got ten minutes to take a shower."

I have a much better idea how I can spend ten minutes. I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss the nape of her neck.

"Jason! Aren't you going to shower?"

"No, baby. Later. I've been thinking about you all day, _Mrs. Taylor_, and I think we should get in as much sinning as possible before you're legally mine."

She pushes away from me slightly.

"About that, Jason…"

I look at her warily. "Second thoughts, baby?"

She slaps my shoulder and smiles. "Don't be silly. No, I was just wondering when we're going to tell Mr. Grey. And Ana."

I shrug. "Is it any of their business?"

"I'm sure Mr. Grey will want to know."

"Yeah? I'm sure he won't give a shit."

"Hmm, well, perhaps we'll leave it for now."

"Whatever you say, baby."

"Besides, I think Mr. Grey and Ana are still in the honeymoon phase, so to speak."

"I know I'm going to regret asking, but what do you mean?"

"Well, yesterday evening, I was just checking the stock in Mr. Grey's drinks cabinet when I saw them… coming out of the playroom with his toy that..."

"Stop right there, baby. I really don't want to know."

"Jason Taylor! Are you really a prude?"

I stare at her in disbelief. "Hell no! I've worked for the King of Kink for four years. Kind of opens a man's eyes. I just don't want a blow by blow description." _I can't believe I just said that_, and I cringe.

Gail starts laughing. "No blowing of any sort: promise."

"Aw, baby."

Dinner is fantastic, but then again everything Gail does is fantastic. I'm a lucky dog.

I settle down in front of the TV with a can of Vitamin R and wait for Gail to come and get some quality lovin'. We don't get as much time together as either of us would like; frankly, I could spend 24/7 with this woman and never get enough.

"Jason, do you know what Mr. Grey's movements are for the rest of the week? And Ana? I know they're at Bellevue on Saturday…"

Gail walks into the room with her schedule.

"We're in Portland all day tomorrow, and won't be back till early evening. Ana's got her friend staying. A _guy_."

Gail's eyebrows nearly hit the stratosphere.

"He's letting her have a _male_ guest in the apartment – while he's not here?"

"Yep," I reply, popping the 'p'.

"Good Heavens!"

"It gets better: he's crushing on her, too."

"Excuse me?"

"Ana's friend, José Rodriguez: really anxious to get into Ana's panties."

"Jason!"

"It's true. The boss isn't too happy about him staying here…"

"I should think not!"

"But Ana told him it was either that or she'd stay at her place with the guy."

"Goodness!"

"Yeah: the boss is totally pussy-whipped." And the thought makes me feel all warm inside.

Gail stares at me and I realize I've had another hoof in head moment.

"Um, you know, without the actual whipping…"

She smirks; damn woman's been playing me!

I launch myself at her and grapple her around the waist. Soon, we're a tangle of arms and legs on the couch, and I owe her another white blouse. Well, hell! They should make them of tougher stuff: those buttons fly off everywhere.

I'm heading for second base, when my damn cell rings.

It's the bitch's ring tone. _What the fuck?_

Technically, it's 'O Fortuna' from _Carmina Burana_, but I always think of it as the music from _The Omen_. It brings back memories of our wedding night.

"Lucy?"

"Jason, it's… it's Sophie!"

Immediately my heart-rate triples.

"What? What's happened?"

I can see Gail's concerned expression, and I know it must mirror mine.

"We're in the Emergency Room now. They think it might be appendicitis." There's a stifled sob. "They're talking about operating."

_Oh, God. Not Sophie. Not my princess._

Lucy's voice is strained. "Jase: I'm so scared."

"I'll be right there, Lucy. Whatever she needs. You understand? Whatever she needs. I'm leaving now. Call me on the way if anything… if there's anything I need to know."

"I will."

And she hangs up.

I've been involved in lot of crazy shit in my life; I've been in fire fights on three continents; I've driven tanks over land peppered with IEDs. But nothing, _nothing_ has scared me as much as that forty second conversation with my ex-wife.

Gail is standing at the door. "I've got your coat," she says. "Drive carefully. I'll tell Mr. Grey."

Unable to speak, I merely nod at her. She tries to smile reassuringly, but her lips freeze half way. She kisses me quickly on the cheek and I'm out the door.

The elevator is so fucking slow, I want to scream.

Traffic is light, but it's slow enough to have me grinding my teeth. I'm vaguely aware that I'm gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my hands are cramping. Once I'm on the I-5 and hitting 100mph, it helps. A little. All I can think about is that my baby's sick; they want to slice up my baby.

It's after midnight by the time I get to the hospital. Some dick in a uniform tries to tell me I can't leave my car in the no-parking zone. The glare I give has him stepping back: I want to hit him really badly – not because of him, but because I want to hurt someone as badly as I'm hurting. Instead I toss him my keys, ignoring his shout that the hospital doesn't do valet parking. Like I care.

The ER waiting room is furnished with cheap plastic chairs, and ugly people. No, I don't mean that, but the woman at reception gives me a professional smile. She's seen the look I have in my eyes before. I don't know how she does her job: how can she see that look every fucking day and not make her want to stab out her own eyeballs. And suddenly I realize something: that's how Grey feels every time he looks in the mirror. He only sees his own ugliness – and Ana shows him beauty.

But there'll be no beauty in the world for me if I can't see my baby.

"Sophie Taylor: she's seven. Her mother brought her in."

"Just a moment," she says, calmly.

I want to rip her eyes from her computer screen, and scream and yell. I take a deep breath as she scrolls through her files.

She looks up. "I'll have nurse take you to her."

I manage to mumble a thank you. I don't know if she heard me and I really don't fucking care.

A chunky guy in pale blue scrubs walks over to me.

"Mr. Taylor? I'm Luke Chalmers and I'm the charge nurse that's been looking after your daughter. At the moment the doctors are trying to decide whether it's severe gastroenteritis or appendicitis. We're running some blood work and we need a sonogram. For now, we're keeping her quiet and hydrated. Your wife and er… her mother and another gentleman are with her."

_Fuck that! _Sophie's _my_ daughter.

And I realize why the hospital employs a guy like a linebacker for Friday night ER, because right now I really want to do some violence and my ex-wife's boyfriend _Steve_ is looking like a good candidate.

The nurse takes me into a curtained cubicle. All I see is Sophie's face, pale against the pillows, her dark hair fanned out. She's so still and quiet – my lungs struggle to pull in air.

"Jason."

I turn at the sound of the voice. A hippy-shit, limp-dicked, long-haired, Baywatch reject is staring at me, his hand held out. _Keep standing like that, buddy, and I'll rip your fucking arm off_.

"I'm Steve."

He drops his hand.

_Not as dumb as you look, Steeeeve._

I lean down and lightly brush the hair off of Sophie's face. She doesn't move.

I straighten up slowly.

"What are they saying?"

My words are directed to my daughter's mother. I can't call her 'the Bitch' right now, not when she's looking at our daughter like that, like half of her has been ripped off. Whatever our problems, she's always loved Sophie. I never knew what that meant until now.

"They haven't decided yet, Jason."

"What the fuck are they waiting for?"

I know my voice is too loud for a hospital, but I can't help it. I wonder if I've gone too far, but Lucy just looks at me tiredly.

"They're doing everything they can, Jase. They don't want to operate if they don't have to. The doctor said he'd be back with the results from the blood work in 20 minutes."

I run my hands over my hair in sheer fucking frustration.

"What happened?"

Lucy leans back and I see for the first time that she's holding Sophie's hand in her own. It looks so small, like a tiny little doll's hand. My baby is so young.

"Um, I'll get some coffees," says Steve.

I nod, but don't look at him.

A minute passes. It's so quiet. Shouldn't there be beeping monitors? Shouldn't there be some sign that these fuckers are looking after my baby?

I stand up, and start pacing up and down the small cubicle.

Lucy stares at me but doesn't say anything.

After another minute of pacing, I'm about to go postal.

Steve returns with coffee: at least, that's what he says it. It looks and smells like goat urine. I don't touch it. I catch Lucy throwing him an apologetic look. It makes me want to do some serious damage to furniture – on the assumption that she'd be a bit miffed if I showed my ex-wife her boyfriend's guts. Furniture isn't off limits.

"Where's the fucking doctor?" I snarl.

I'm about to have a serious, Grey-shaped tantrum, that may or may not involve a range of offensive weapons, when some stiff in green scrubs walks in.

"Miss Anderson?" he asks, calmly.

"Yes!" she replies, sounding desperate.

The doctor glances at me and the hippy.

"Um, Steve Pollini and Jason Taylor – Sophie's father."

Lucy introduces us.

_What kind of name is 'Pollini'? Makes the fucker sound like a starter at a cheap Italian restaurant. "Have some garlic bread with your Pollini." Stupid fucking hippy._

"Ah. I'm Doctor Mathers. Well, I'm afraid the tests have been inconclusive."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I growl at him.

He replies with that infuriating hospital-voice that's supposed to be all low and soothing. Makes me want to rip his tongue out of his fucking patronizing skull and use if for fish food.

"Well, Mr. Taylor, there's definitely inflammation in Sophie's gut. That will certainly result in the intense pain she's been suffering…"

I close my eyes. I don't want to think of my baby suffering, my baby in pain. _Make it me! Let it be me, not her!_

"And this can mimic the symptoms of appendicitis. However, there's no abdominal rigidity and that's a good thing. We could well be dealing with a case of severe gastroenteritis. Her blood test is slightly raised, but it's only slight, and it's not always an indicator of appendicitis. At this point, I want to keep Sophie for observation; she also needs to be hydrated because of the loss of fluids during the vomiting and diarrhea."

"Isn't there anything you can do for her?"

"We're doing everything we can, Mr. Taylor, I can assure you. Rest, fluids, and observation. Do you have any more questions for me?" I shake my head. "Miss Anderson?"

Lucy's eyes are wide and her lips tremble. She looks at me, then slowly shakes her head.

"No," she says, "I don't have any questions."

And then we wait.

I'm not exactly five stars at waiting. I fucking hate it. Give me something to hit; give me something to shoot at. Don't make me sit here counting the ways I can scare the shit out of _Steeeeve_. Okay, that bit isn't so bad, but waiting for my baby to be better is fucking killing me.

And anyway, this is a different kind of waiting. When I'm on a job, I can be patient. I know that sounds fucking unlikely, but it's true.

I'm not on a job now, and my gut is twisted in knots. I feel so fucking useless – helpless. And I don't like it.

A nurse bustles in: she takes Sophie's temperature, and adjusts her IV. She smiles. It means nothing.

I get a text from Gail.

**How's Princess Sophie?**

_**Too early to say. Could be appendicitis. Could be stomach flu. No fucker here knows. **_

**Sophie is strong. Give her my love. Try not to shoot anyone**.

_**I will. No promises on the shooting.**_

**Love you, Jason Taylor.**

_**Me 2.**_

"Is that Gail?"

I realize Lucy is asking me a question.

"Yeah."

"She's good for you, Jason. You seem… calmer."

_What a fucking joke. I'm climbing the walls here_.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, really. I thought you'd charge in here, stomping all over everyone, waving your gun."

"I thought about it."

She smiles. "That's what I mean: you're calmer."

My lips twitch in what might have been a smile if I weren't so fucking worried.

And then we wait.

Steve disappears to… hell, I don't remember what he went to do, and I don't give a shit. I prefer it when the hairy fucker isn't here. Christ knows what Lucy sees in him. He's the polar opposite of me… Oh, right. Whatever.

Sophie's eyelids flutter and I think she's waking up.

"Hey, baby. Daddy's here."

She smiles in her sleep, but she doesn't wake.

I sit back, sighing.

"So, how's it going with you and Gail?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

She shakes her head and smiles. "Not really. I just need some distraction."

"And you thought talking about my love life would do that?"

"So, you have got a love life?"

I feel like telling her to take a job with sex and travel, but I don't.

"I've asked her to marry me, Luce. She said yes."

Lucy takes a deep breath.

"You're getting married?"

"Yep."

"Once wasn't enough? Sorry, Jason, that came out wrong. I'm really pleased for you."

She sees my skeptical stare. "No, really, I am. Sophie will love being a bridesmaid. Oh, sorry, I don't know what you had planned."

To be honest, I hadn't really thought about getting married; I'd just thought about _being_ married. It could be a Vegas wedding with an Elvis impersonator, for all I care. It'll be whatever Gail wants. But now Lucy's said it, I can just picture Princess Sophie all dolled up, carrying a basket of flowers.

"Yeah, maybe, I don't know. We haven't discussed it: it's kind of new."

"Well, congratulations."

"Thanks." I hesitate for a moment. "So what about you and the hi… Steve?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe. We'll see. He loves Sophie – he makes a great father… I mean, step-father."

I scowl at her.

And just like that, the entente is over.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Jason! He sees her more than you do! You're always working. The number of times you've cancelled on Sophie are unreal!"

"That is a fucking lie, Lucy, and you know it. I cancelled one time, _one time_ because I was stuck in NYC. I've made it up to her a thousand times over!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jason! You can't _make it up_ to a six year old child who has to learn that adults make promises but don't always keep them. You can't _make that up_ to her."

"You are such a fucking bitch!"

"And you're a foul-mouthed jarhead! What the hell did I ever see in you?!"

"Mummy?" says a soft voice. "Is daddy here yet?"

"I'm here, Princess," I say, quietly.

"My tummy hurts."

"I know, baby, but the doctors are going to give you medicine to make it better."

"Where's Steve?"

I look up to see Lucy staring at me in triumph. Anger rushes through me, but I bite my tongue – for Sophie's sake.

"He's just running an errand, baby girl. He'll be back soon."

Her eyes close again, and she drifts back to sleep.

"Well, I hope you're happy now," hisses the Bitch.

"What?"

"You woke her up with your ranting!"

"Don't push me, Luce. I'm not in the mood."

"It's not about you, you bastard!"

"I fucking know that, you tight-assed bitch!"

"Watch your mouth! Your daughter is lying right there or had you forgotten?"

_Fuck._

The curtain is pulled back by an embarrassed Steve and Dr. Mathers, who looks tired and irritated. I know how he feels: we've been doing this shit for the best part of a decade.

"Um, everything okay in here?" says Steve.

"Just peachy, Steeeeve," I reply, earning a scorching look from Cruella de Vil's uglier sister.

The doctor sighs: he's seen it all before.

"Well, Sophie is doing much better now. Her temperature is down, and she's responding well with the fluids and pain medication. I'm fairly certain she's out of the woods."

"So, it's not appendicitis?"

"No, Mr. Taylor. Gastroenteritis can look very dramatic, but Sophie is going to be fine."

"Thank fuck for that."

He smiles. "Quite."

Lucy smiles at Steve, and Steve smiles at Lucy. It's a fucking smile-fest. It's so sweet, it makes my teeth ache.

By the following afternoon, Sophie is sitting up in bed, bitching about missing her favorite TV show. It's still _Dora, the Explorer_. My baby is still a baby.

"Hey, Princess. You want to come and stay with daddy soon? Gail would love to see you, too."

"Okay, daddy. Can mommy come, too?"

"Um, no. Mommy's busy that weekend. Just you and your old man, huh, Princess?"

"Okay, daddy."

"I love you, Princess."

"Me, too, daddy."

_God, I love that kid. So much_.

I'm tired, but relieved. I didn't kill the Bitch, and I didn't maim Steve. Who needs anger management lessons?

"Are you staying, Jason?" says the Bitch, between gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I'm going to check into a hotel, stay around for a couple of days."

I know Grey will be cool with that. The twisted fucker has a heart: who knew?

"Oh, lovely," she says, under her breath.

But then my cell rings.

"Taylor, it's Welch. Grey's gone missing. Charlie Tango disappeared off the radar 20 minutes ago."

_Fuck_.

FSoT * FSoT * FSoT

* Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services


	31. Chapter 31 - It's a Wonderful Life

Chapter 31: It's a Wonderful Life

I am so sick of women crying. How the fuck is that helpful to anyone?

Grey and Ros have been missing for seven hours now. Charlie Tango disappeared from radar in the Silver Lake area near Mount Saint Helens.

What the fuck was he doing over there? Joy riding? And that really isn't a sentence I thought I'd see anywhere near Grey, but there's no other explanation.

And how the hell did the safest heli on the market lose _both_ of its engines at the same time?

I park that thought at the back of my brain for analysis later. Right now, I'm coordinating intel from rescue services, and feeding info to Andrea so she can throw some crumbs to the media who are circling like vultures.

Fucking paps are outside Escala now. I want to go down there and clear those assholes off of the sidewalk, but apparently violence against those fuckers is still frowned on. Who knew?

Frank, the doorman, is in his element, making sure no one so much as breathes on the windows either side of the entrance. I've sent him reinforcements, but I think he's about to re-stage the invasion of Danang. I had to make sure he hasn't got any weapons. Fucker tried to impress Gail by telling her he had a Bowie knife in his sock. Said knife is now lying on my desk.

Gail isn't. Impressed, I mean. Not by that short, wall-eyed ass-wipe. She's in the staff quarters rustling up sandwiches for those who want them. That's me and Elliot then. No one else is the least bit hungry, but I've been up for 36 hours and I'm fucking starving. I have to stay alert and on top of things for the boss's sake. Food is fuel.

Gail has pulled her shit together and although she's red-eyed and kinda shaky, she's actually doing something useful. God, I love that woman.

Ana is almost catatonic, which scares me more than all the howling and wailing that started when Mia Grey arrived. The doc is white-faced but composed and Mr. Grey has been stalking me through the apartment, trying to 'do something to help'. But there's nothing to do.

Rescue services are flying helis over the area where air traffic control last had a reading. But there are no roads in that area, so we can't get wheels in – not even ATVs. They're about to call off the search until morning, and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. The light is too bad now for safe flying.

And, let's face it, they might just be looking for the smudge on the side of a mountain, or a scattering of tooled engine parts. Parts of a body.

That's not something you ever forget – collecting body parts to bag up and send home.

I don't want that to be the end of Grey's story – or Ana's. The girl is in shock, pale and ice-cold. The doc is keeping an eye on her, giving her hot, sweet tea, that sort of thing, but nothing helps. She's just waiting. Her heart has been ripped out of her body. It's still beating, but with each minute that passes, it beats a little slower, a little weaker and I'm so fucking scared it's going to just stop and there'll be nothing left.

And what will it all have meant? Everything that she's been through? Everything Grey has been through?

I've known that twisted bastard for four years now. I've hated him, despised him, admired him, learned from him, and I've pitied him. Fuck it, I've even liked him, and I don't like many people. He's every color of fucked up but at least he knows it and tries to be a better man. There aren't many like him – okay, there's _no one_ like the boss, but how many people really try hard to be better – I mean, really _drive_ themselves like that.

He may not think it himself, in fact I know he doesn't, but he's _good_.

And I can't help wondering where we'd all be if he wasn't around? I'd be doing some close protection job, maybe in Dubai or some other hotter than Hades place. Gail and I would never have met, which really fucking slays me. She could be working for some ass-wipe in a country pile with his E-type jags, treating her like a goddamn slave. Ana would still be this quiet, closed-off, lonely little bookworm, not the strong vibrant woman she's become.

Our lives would be less if we'd never met Grey. And for a guy who has the most monotone name in history, our lives would be a lot less colorful.

And what if they don't find him alive? What then? Ana will be broken, living – but not; a shell. Doc and Mr. Grey will be older and tireder and sadder. Mia and Elliot will have lost a brother, someone who cares for them, challenges them and loves them without question.

And what about me and Gail? We'll still be together, but we'd have to find somewhere that needed a housekeeper and a… whatever the hell I am – driver, security, go-to guy.

I just want the boss to walk in that door with balloons tied to his head, drunk as a skunk, yelling 'surprise' and doing his happy dance.

Okay, I'll settle for him just walking in the door.

I feel guilty when I realize I haven't even thought about how Gwen must be feeling, waiting for Ros to walk in. I know Andrea is staying in touch with her, but I don't even know if Gwen has got people with her. I know that her family doesn't speak to her, or Ros's. I really don't fucking get that? I mean, you don't plan who you fall in love with, so what the fuck does it matter? But apparently it does. Life is nasty, short and brutish. Find love where you can – then hold the fuck onto it.

Okay, here's one thing I can fix.

I call Andrea.

"Is there news?" she gasps.

I am such a fucking shit-brain. Of course she'd think that was why I was phoning.

"No, not yet, Andrea. But maybe you can do something about Gwen. Has she got somebody with her?"

"Oh," says Andrea, softly. "I don't know. I'll find out. If not, I'll get someone over there. If I forget to tell you tomorrow, Jason Taylor, you are a real sweet guy."

_What the fuck?_ I'm harder than fucking nails! I drink my own piss, eat black powder and fart fireworks! I am not_ real sweet!_

I stare at the cellphone in my hand as if the fucker is about to turn to chocolate, and I can hear Andrea snuffling on the end of the line. _Gimme a fucking break with the weeping women!_

"Yeah, just make sure she's not alone."

Next call – a fucking sensible one, I hope – is to Welch. I need to check the arrangements for the 200 ex-military we've got flying in from all over the US. Starting at dawn tomorrow, there'll be a fingertip search of the entire Silver Lake area. We've got mountaineering specialists, guys used to working in rough terrain, as well as a team of rangers who know the area like the back of their hand. And two medivac helis, in case we're bringing out anyone alive. It's not looking good but I'm preparing for all eventualities: that's what I do.

"Welch, what's the sit rep?"

"On spec."

"What about the forensics team from Donauwörth?"

"On way. ETA JFK 05.00 EST. Whatever went wrong with Charlie Tango, they'll find it. Their reputation is on the line: no one will want to buy 'the world's safest helicopter' if Grey… well, I don't need to draw you a picture. They're also sending some bigwig from EADS, the parent company. I've freed up a hangar at the Boeing Field and have arranged for a heavy-lift chopper to bring back… wreckage, whatever they find."

"I want that fucking hangar secured: no one gets in or out. And no fucking reporters get in. None. All staff subject to full external body search and all camera phones and recording devices held before entry is allowed. I want a full list of everyone who had access at Boeing Field for the last two months. Update the threat list to Grey and all his family – including Miss Steele. Email the report asap."

"Roger and out."

Frustration makes me short, but Welch understands. We couldn't protect the boss, but we can do our best to protect his family – and to find out what the fuck has happened.

I wonder if the boss is standing at the pearly gates right now, swearing his head off because I've fucked up. Maybe he's chained himself to the railings – that's if he had handcuffs with him when he died – he probably did; he carries his second-best pair everywhere. Fuck! _If _he died. Fucking _if_ he died.

"Jason, I've made you a sandwich. You have to eat."

I look up and realize that I've been staring at the cellphone in my hand since I hung up with Welch.

Gail looks tired and her eyes are red, but to me it's like seeing an oasis in the desert. The look on my face tells her everything she needs to know and she walks towards me. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her waist. She smells of baking and home.

"You mustn't give up, Jason."

I sigh and look up.

"I'm planning for the worst," _and hoping for the best_.

She nods. She understands.

My cell rings and she kisses me lightly before going back to doling out food to anyone who can bear to put something in their stomachs. Yeah, I'll eat. Someone has to stop the rest of the wheels from falling off.

"Welch, talk to me."

"Mountain rescue is on stand-by and 72% of the search team is now in Seattle. Rest are on way."

"Roger that."

"Out."

I take a bite of the sandwich without even noticing if it's chicken, cheese or curried fucking goat. I glance up and see that Mr. Grey senior is standing at the door.

"Sir," I say, standing up.

He waves his hand tiredly.

"Please sit, Taylor. I didn't mean to interrupt your meal. Is there any news?"

"We're good to go for a 05.30 start, sir. We'll find him. And Ms Bailey."

I'm lying through my teeth. We both know it.

"Thank you for that. It's something… something I can tell the others."

I nod, because I have no fucking words.

He sighs, and rubs his hands over his face. He's aged ten years in the last few hours. We all have, I think.

"Sir, there is one other thing I have to talk to you about."

"Yes, Taylor? What is it?"

He sounds like he couldn't care less.

"Mr. Grey made a contingency plan for emergencies – such as this. It activates eight hours… from his last communication in the event of… unforeseen circumstances. Sir, it names Ms Bailey and yourself as joint Executors of his estate – all of GEH – everything. We're nearing that threshold, sir. I just needed to let you know." _Because you'll be in charge._

"What? Everything?"

"Yes, sir. It's updated regularly and – just recently – he made some specific requests vis a vis Ms Steele."

He shakes his head. "I just want my son home safe, Taylor."

_Yeah._

He gives a small smile.

"That's so like Christian: wanting to control things even after… well. It's so like Christian."

He walks away with his head hanging down, as if his thoughts are too heavy for his skull. Yeah, I get that.

My cell rings again. What the fuck does Frank the doorman want? If he thinks Gail is going to take _him _a sandwich, he can just fuck right off.

"Mr. Taylor! He's here!"

"Who's here?"

"Mr. Grey! He just walked in."

"Carrick Grey and Elliot Grey are with me now," _you fucking moron_.

"No! Mr. _Christian_ Grey! He's on his way up now!"

_Holy fuck!_

I drop the phone, not caring whether or not I've cut off Frank the Fuck.

CCTV shows me that he's not a complete fucking fantasist and that the boss is indeed in the elevator on his way up. He's barefoot and leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. He looks like shit and I am so fucking relieved that I could run three laps around a Super Bowl stadium stark naked, if Janet Jackson hadn't already done something similar.

Technically, I should go and debrief him on the day's events, but his family is waiting. This is a time for family: I'm just the hired help. Even so, I can't help being drawn towards the main room.

Carrick Grey sees him first.

They're all crowding round him, laughing and crying, stunned with happiness and disbelief.

Gail runs out and then stops, her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes.

"He's back," she whispers. "Oh, Jason! He's really back!"

And she hugs me so tight, I think my ribs will crack – and I don't care.

She waits until they've had their moment and the boss is reunited with his woman, then Gail goes in to offer food.

It's clear the boss is hungry, tired, thirsty and bewildered by the attention.

Dumb fuck didn't even realize that people were missing him. Really makes me want to kick the shit out of his dumb ass. If it weren't for the whole salary with benefits thing.

Gail hurries back with a Budvar and then dashes off to the kitchen, happy to be useful. Yeah, I get that, as well.

The boss looks up and sees me watching: and you know what that miserable fucking twisted bastard of a bat-shit crazy boss says to me?

"Your daughter?"

Goddamn him for remembering! I wanted to kick the shit out of him five seconds ago; now I have to be fucking grateful to him. Again. Fucking bastard. Damn his GQ-designer hide. I really like that dumb fuck. So sue me.

"She's fine now. False alarm, sir."

"Good."

He smiles. He fucking smiles at me. _Yeah, boss, still working on that whole happy feet routine. 'Nother time maybe. Next time we think you've fucking popped your clogs. You cool with that? Great._

"Glad you're back, sir." _This damn twisted world wouldn't be the same without you, you bastard._ "Will that be all?"

"We have a helicopter to pick up."

_Yeah, someone mentioned that, for fuck's sake!_

"Now? Or will the morning do?"

_See – I can be funny. I'm all for the humor. Go, me!_

"Morning, I think, Taylor."

_Too fucking right_.

"Very good, Mr. Grey. Anything else, sir?"

He raises his beer to me and I can't help smiling at the smug bastard.

I head back to the office and tell Welch to call off the morning's search party. I authorize him to pay them triple overtime, expenses and a bonus. I know what it's like to suit up and then have the op called off. But they came – so they'll be paid properly.

Next call is Andrea.

"Oh, God, Jason! Has he been found? Please just tell me he's been found!"

"Yeah, Andrea. All in one piece. Happy, clappy, fucking sappy. Spread the word."

"I love you, Jason Taylor!" she yells, before cutting me off.

_Women!_

Sometime after 2am, I make it to bed. The search team has been stood down but forensics and the recovery team will still start at dawn.

Gail blinks at me sleepily as I stagger over and climb in.

"What a day!"

"Sure was, baby. I'm fucking happy it's over."

"I'm happy it's a happy ever after ending," she says.

Her comment makes me laugh, except for the fact my mouth doesn't actually move.

"Yeah, but this is the boss we're talking about: he only does happy for happy hour – I don't know about ever after. That might be pushing it a bit."

"It's good enough for now," she says sleepily.

_Can't argue with that._

When I wake up, I can't remember why it feels like my eyelids have been glued to my eyeballs. And then the memories come back like a fucking Hollywood epic. _You've seen it all here, folks: Drama! Heartache! Love and loss! A Hero in Peril! A Damsel in Distress! The Hired Fucking Help Who Needs A New Fucking Job! Roll up! Roll up!_

Gail prods me gently and wafts a bacon sandwich under my nose.

If she doesn't count as the perfect woman, I'm going to have to go marry Julie Fucking Andrews instead.

Groaning slightly, and feeling every day of my 37 years, I sit up, propping the pillows behind me.

"Christ! I don't know who I fucked in the last life to meet a woman like you, baby, but it was damn well worth it."

"Interesting way of putting it, Jason, but you might want to rethink the communication between your brain and your mouth before you find your bacon sandwich inserted into an orifice for which nature did not intend it."

_Oh_.

Yeah, well, I'm a smart guy, so I don't reply. That bacon looks crispy – and I really don't want to shit toast. Not on a Saturday.

I smile while Gail gives me the stink-eye, except she can't keep it up. _Yeah, I'm irresistible. _Born that way and just grew bigger. What can I say?

After dragging my sorry ass out of bed, and limping into the shower, I present myself front and centre to hear Grey's debrief.

Except the lazy bastard isn't out of bed. Well, technically he _is_, except he's getting down and dirty in the play pit. Whatever. I've got a shed load of work to do and Welch has been calling me since 6am. Just because _he _hasn't had any sleep, no need to share the pain. Good thing I switched off my cell – something I never, ever do, as a rule. Well, fuck: there are exceptions to every rule – learned that in the Marines. Of course, you have to know what the rules are before you break them: Boot Camp 101.

When the boss finally gets his ass out of the sling, or handcuffs, or whatever fuck-toy he's been using, we get down to business.

As he describes the fire in the cockpit I get a really nasty feeling deep down. That was no electrical short-circuit: it smells more and more like sabotage. Neither of us want to say it, and we'll have to wait until forensics confirms it, but Grey has security at GEH and his other offices doubled; then trebled for all his family and Ms Steele. Discreetly, of course. Because if this is sabotage, we don't want to tip off the fucker – or fuckers – who did it.

When Ana asks me about it later, it makes me really fucking uncomfortable. I keep the conversation short: she doesn't need to know that the probability of someone wanting to kill her boyfriend just tipped in favor of the bad guys. Intel like that could give the girl nightmares – if she wasn't already living with King Nightmare.

She's tougher than she looks. She's going to need to be. Billionaires come at a price – pun intended.

I spend the day going over the logistics with Welch and keeping in touch with the recovery of Charlie Tango.

The Eurocopter team can't believe the boss managed to land it in pretty much one piece.

Grey's response is to issue a memo ordering all staff, when out of the office on official business to carry water and walking shoes. Oh wait, that came from Ros. Weird.

The boss and Ana head out for dinner at his folks and to celebrate his 28th birthday. Jeez, that makes me feel old. And just to prove that I'm not, I take my woman to bed and fuck her seven shades from Sunday.

That's my sort of happy ever after.

Yeah, I'm a born romantic.

**Coming Soon!**

**Taylor's adventures in Europe with people who don't speak American!**


	32. Chapter 32, Johnny English

Chapter 32: Johnny English

Warm beer. Doncha just love it? Maybe it's a law in England that says you can't serve beer under 40 degrees. Oh wait, they use Celsius here, which means, um, the beer is, what 10oC? Whatever – it's not cold.

What surprises me more is that I'm getting a taste for bitter – that suspiciously dark beer that looks like it's been made from chipmunk ass. I blame James Rayment – beer-swilling ex-mob (Hereford Regiment, also known as the SAS) and paid up member of the Campaign for Real Ale. Ale? Have I just wandered onto the set of _Carry on Henry_?

But I love, _love_ London cabs. Specifically the drivers are awesome – they know their way around better than any GPS. Goddamn they can drive. Talk too much, but they know their business.

I haven't done any driving since we got here so in theory I can have the occasional drink, not that I really care. I'm here to work.

Yep, Mr. and Mrs. Grey are finally on their honeymoon. The wedding was low key, the main challenge being to keep out the paparazzi. The doc and Grey Senior weren't happy about some of the alterations we had to make to their property – I mean, who wants razor wire around their garden walls? But that's the reality now. Yes, you need all the serious infra-red shit to make sure trespassers are kept out, along with a good CCTV, but you need a visual giant fuck-off sign, too. It lets people know that we're watching – so I use a mix of obvious, unobtrusive and hidden surveillance equipment. I had to promise the doc that we'd take the razor wire down afterwards although I wasn't happy about that – but she insisted and it's her home. I get that.

Welch coordinated the checks of all the catering staff, along with the guys who put up the marquee, extra security, and anyone else who was going to be on the property. And Grey pulled some strings with Seattle Air Route Traffic Control Center and got a no-fly zone over Bellevue for the day. The paps got pretty upset about that, citing the First Amendment, Freedom of the Press and all that shit. And what about the boss's right to have a quiet wedding with no goddamn cameras and no skuzzy bastards with long lenses who've hired a heli to hover over your parents' home while you're trying to promise the woman you love that you'll be with her forever?

Of course, any outdoor event is a security nightmare. It's much harder to lock down an external site, for a start, and the margin of error and the ratio of possibilities is that much greater. Chaos Theory – also know as Shit Happens. But the outdoor setting with the view sweeping down towards the Sound was what Ana and Grey wanted, and I was going to do my part to make sure they got what they wanted. We lucked out on the weather, too, so from everyone else's perspective it was a perfect day.

"Jason, darling, just relax. There isn't one single thing more that you can do. Your blood pressure will be sky high if you carry on like this all day."

"Mrs. Jones, the only thing that gets my blood pressure going around here is you, but it ain't rushing to my head."

I pushed my hips into her fucking amazing silk-covered ass just to make my point. She looked so beautiful in the pale blue dress that matched her eyes, her hair loose and shining like gold. I get hard just looking at her. And silk – fuck – that does things to a man. Well, this man.

"Hmm, well, you'll have to hold that thought – probably for the next three weeks."

_Jeez – three long, lonely weeks._

"I wish you could hold it for me, baby."

"Jason! We have a wedding to get to – and I don't want to be… rumpled."

"I'm going to miss… rumpling you, baby. I'm going to miss you, period."

My woman had a wedding to get to and I couldn't help wishing it was ours. But that would have to come later.

She'd been so happy that the boss had invited her as his and Ana's guest. She'd gotten a printed invitation, one of the small andful that were sent out. And along with it, an appointment for her to have an outfit made at one of those high-end couture shops. Plus, I don't know, a load of that shit women like: spa day, hair and make up. Fuck, but she smelled so good I wanted to take her there and then. Although getting arrested for public indecency probably isn't what you'd call a good career move. Especially at your boss's wedding.

All I know is that she looked fucking amazing.

"Just promise me one thing, Mrs. Jones."

"What's that, Jason?"

"Don't make me wait too long to call you Mrs. Taylor."

Her eyes softened and those fuckable lips curved up in a smile.

_Those lips_.

That was a week ago and right but now I'm sitting in a pub that you could generously call a dive, next to a hairy-assed Brit called James Rayment who is doing his best to teach me _English _English, as opposed to _American _English, which is an entirely different language, or so he says. It's an education in the local lingo.

So far we've done currency. I've learned that a _pony_ is £25. A _monkey _is £500. A _ton_ is £100, but if you _drive ton-up_, you're breaking the speed limit at 100 plus mph.

And £1 is a _pound_,_ quid_ or _knicker_. It would be legitimate for a _bloke_ to say to a _mate_, "Here's the ten knicker what I owes you."

Okay, so I have to admit that my blood—alcohol level wouldn't bear very close investigation at this precise moment in time, but what the fuck? It's an evening off. And nothing against Mr. _and Mrs. _Grey, but going with someone else on their honeymoon officially blows.

The boss is getting it left right and center – probably – and all I get is a couple of minutes facetime with the lovely and very-far-away Gail. My balls will be bluer than the Queen's carpet.

Grey is totally loved up and Ana… _Mrs. Grey_… is totally adoring. Which adds up to totally sickening for the poor sap – that'd be me – who has to follow their every loving, ever-loving steps. Except for tonight.

Rayment's beta team is on the case and I am getting quietly wasted in a football-themed pub where the photographs are of some dude named Nobby Stiles. Not wanting to cause an international issue, but come on – Nobby? Does that sound like a famous soccer player? It kinda reminds me of when I was a kid and I wanted a really cool nickname. I got my friend Dylan to call me Hawkeye for a whole semester. Fuck, I loved that nickname. I could see myself running wild through the woods, hunting with the Injuns and all that. Until my teacher, Miss Van Hendon (known to us as Van Helsing), told me that Hawthorne's character Hawkeye had a white name, too – Natty Bumppo. I was only ten, but even then I didn't think it was possible to have a more uncool name. Seriously. No one called me Hawkeye after that.

It's been a long day. The intrepid honeymooners have visited Whitechapel, following the trail of Jack the Ripper. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but following the route taken by a serial killer 120 something years ago doesn't constitute my idea of honeymoon heaven. I was pretty fucking shocked when I found out it was Ana's idea. I don't think Grey was that keen either. It seemed a bit macabre to my way of thinking, but then again she had just married Mr. I-have-a-dungeon-in-my-penthouse. Go figure.

But when the tour guide started going into a considerable amount of grisly detail that made Ana look pale, I'd had enough. Grey was scowling and about to throw an epic shit fit in the middle of the cobbled street when I decided to have a quiet word in the guide's ear, explaining that if he continued describing the murders in graphic anatomical detail, he'd soon be feeling said anatomical detail via the toe of my boot.

Discreet. That's me.

I hadn't expected to like London so much. A city is a city, right? But here history really is all around you. Something a couple of hundred years old is practically brand new. The Whitechapel tour included a run down to Wapping and Ratcliffe Lane which was originally 'red cliff' because of the color of the soil, another site of notorious murders and not far from a pub where pirates were hung* – 500 years ago. Five hundred goddamn years ago! Ana planned the route which makes me worry. The pub's still there although they don't stick heads on spikes anymore. But if Grey catches anyone else staring at his new wife, it might come back into fashion.

We walked past part of an old Roman Wall when Ana wanted to visit the Tower of London. It felt weird – two thousand years of history watching the Thames float past. It screws with you brain. Grey fixed it that she got an individual guided tour after the Tower had closed. I organized a boat to take them in via the river entrance – called Traitors' Gate. Ana got a kick out of that and I got a kick out of seeing her so happy. And as for the boss, it's kinda scary seeing him baring his teeth all the time.

So, yeah, the happy couple did all the touristy things, and Rayment had all the local knowledge to make it happen.

"So, you must like your gaffer, because you've been with him a while now, huh, JT?"

"Yep, four years."

_Jeez – four years?_

"The wife seems nice. Bit young, but a sweet kid."

I had the same thought when I first met Ana but she's so much more than that. She's got the King of Pain singing a new tune and it's good to see. I know he still gets nightmares – Gail and I hear him sometimes – but it's not nearly as often now. Whatever still haunts him, she's beating back his demons one by one. She's strong, although I don't think she even realizes it.

"Yeah, she's a good person. Good for him, too."

I don't want to talk about the boss anymore and Rayment knows when he's being shut down.

"So, what you been up to, Jimbo? The work gone a bit quiet?"

"Is that a bleedin' joke, JT? Nah, it's been full on. I've just given up doing celebrities. Lost my fuckin' nerve, din I."

"What do you mean?"

I can't imagine Rayment _losing his nerve_. What the fuck?

"I used to do a lot of red carpet work but it's more gray hairs on my head than Desert Storm. Seriously, mate, when you've got crowds like that and all that's keeping them back is a poxy rope and a couple of bollards, all it would take would be one tiny thing to set it off. Then you haven't got a crowd of fans, you've got a howling mob. You don't know if someone's got a gun, a knife, a hypodermic needle. It's a bleedin' nightmare waiting to happen. Who needs that kind of crap in their lives. Know what I mean?"

He shakes his head and I can completely understand where he's coming from. It's the ultimate nightmare of close protection work – that you won't be able to control 'the situation'. We spend our lives trying to control the uncontrollable, trying to outguess the unexpected. The boss likes to be low-key which makes my job a helluva lot easier. But I never forget that he's a potential target. He's a billionaire – that makes him a target. Ana is a billionaire's wife – that makes her a target. I don't even know if she's realized that from now on her life will be lived in a gilded cage.

"What sort of work you doing now then, Jim?"

"More your sort of work: security for high profile peeps. There's no shortage of one-offs for people like me. Next month I'll be out in Libya looking after some French geologists who are scoping out new oil wells. Then I've got two months in Nigeria. That'll be grim, but it pays well. This is a picnic by comparison."

He sees the expression on my face.

"Don't worry, JT. My team has your boss covered. There won't be any slip-ups – not on my watch. Wiltshire tomorrow, right? We've got two cars as well as the four-by-four that mister and missus will be riding in. More under the radar than a limo – I like the way Grey thinks."

_That is a scary thought._

"You want to ride upfront or with the happy couple, JT?"

"Yep. I'm with the Greys. Who's driving?"

"Dead Ed."

"Okay."

'Dead Ed' is one of the best on Rayment's team. I didn't ask how he got his nickname – some British humor just doesn't translate, probably. Although the guy kinda reminds me of a zombie film I saw once. You know the kind – where the head has been bolted on backwards. He's a bit freaky, but he's a damn good driver. Especially in a country where they all drive on the wrong side of the road. And roundabouts! Who the hell invented those and what were they on at the time? And mini roundabouts – or _double_ mini roundabouts. Too fucking weird.

So our driver is 'Dead Ed'. I worry about Rayment's sense of humor. And fuck me, the jokes were bad.

"You'll like this one, JT. Last night there was a big fight in our local fish and chip shop – a lot of fish got battered."

_Yeah. Like I said._

I was too tired to reply when I heard him mutter under his breath, "Bloody colonials."

When I got back to the hotel there was a message from Welch to call him.

"Taylor, we've started getting some intel back from forensics."

_Fuck. I knew this was going to be bad_.

"We've got a partial thumb print and so far it hasn't matched any of the Boeing Airfield staff. It's too early to say…"

_Yeah, too early to say but we both know what that means_.

"It's too early to say that it's sabotage for sure, and there are a lot more tests to do on the engines to rule out mechanical or electronics failure. So, we're running the partial against national databases but with only a 35% print, it's going to bring up tens of thousands of results." He sighed. "But it's a start. Will you tell Grey?"

_Million dollar question_.

"No. Not until we've got concrete information to give him. The poor fucker's on his honeymoon. I don't want to give him 'may be' or 'could be'. When we know something for sure, yeah, then I'll tell him."

"He won't like you keeping information from him, Taylor."

"Don't I fucking know it, but right now information is what we're short of. But just to be on the safe side, ramp up the security at all sites. And tell Sullivan."

"Okay, Taylor. Your call."

_Yeah, my call._

The next morning we leave the city behind. By special request of Mrs. Grey, we're going to see Stonehenge. At dawn. For fuck's sake. Has marrying Grey turned her into a druid?

We leave the hotel at 4:00 and head south west.

Rayment is on point and fully alert on less than four hours sleep. All ex-military personnel are used to that, but you don't want to do it for too long or you get pretty strung-out. But one day of little sleep and long hours won't kill us. Or impair our judgment, which is more important.

The sky is getting lighter behind us and dawn is chasing us across the country, but we arrive at the massive, gray stones in good time. Ana looks tired and pale and I wonder if she slept last night. She's curled up under Grey's arms and when he looks at her, he can't hide the love he feels for her. I probably have that same look when Gail is near me. It's not something that you can hide easily, although we both try – me and Grey. Yeah, I get that. It's private.

As the sun's rays seep above the horizon, I can't help feeling part of something bigger. People have done exactly what I'm doing for 5,000 years. It's strange, but I feel connected to …something. I can understand Ana's fascination – there's definitely something about the atmosphere here.

Ana pulls a tatty paperback out of her purse and begins to read.

"_I like very much to be here," she murmured. "It is so solemn and lonely – after my great happiness – with nothing but the sky above my face. it seems as if there were no folk in the world but we two; and I wish there were not."_

She looks up at Grey and her face glows with love. Rayment and I discreetly back away.

Gail always liked that the book _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_. Once, she made me watch the film version. I thought Natasha Kinski was hot. But I could never figure out why women like to watch films that make them cry. Men don't do that shit. Although the tears are pretty close every time James Bond totals another DB5 – but that is _not_ the same fucking thing at all.

We leave the ring of stones behind as the first tourist coach arrives. Next stop is breakfast at some hotel in the market town of Dorchester. Ana wanders around with another paperback book, this time it's _The Mayor of Casterbridge_ in her hand, and she uses it to point out the relevant landmarks. The boss makes some comment about buying her a Kindle so she won't have to carry so much around with her, and I see Ana visibly cringe.

He'll talk her into it. The boss likes his toys. _Oh, God help me. I cannot believe I had that thought. I want to bleach my brain._

Next stop on Ana's literary pilgrimage is Lyme Regis. We're already done the Howarth Parsonage in Yorkshire, home of the Brontës. What a dreary fucking place that was. No wonder they wrote _Wuthering Heights._ I don't know what a wuther is but it sounded about right all the same. Damp, cold, miserable – and that's in the summer. Cakes in the tourist teashop weren't as good as Gail's either. I couldn't wait to get back to London and the smell of baking tarmac in the morning.

Back on the coast,I think Ana's going to do the cape thing from _The French Lieutenant's Woman_ but no: now it's Jane Austen. The village of Lyme Regis is like nothing I've ever seen before. Yeah, and then Rayment tells me it's a town. Seriously? This place would fit in the back yard at Grey's new place.

The harbor is protected by a stone wall reaching out into the sea like a hooked finger. Ana jumps off it onto the sidewalk and Grey catches her. She says she's recreating a scene from _Persuasion_ and she jumps off again, and this time Grey scowls at her, telling her that she'll hurt herself. She rolls her eyes and says, "That's the point!"

Yeah, I totally don't get that either. But she looks happy.

I can see that Rayment is falling under Ana's spell, too. He's met Grey before so he knows what a double-hard bastard he is, but now his assessment of Ana being a 'sweet kid' is being re-evaluated. Rayment's a smart guy and he can see the dynamics at work. Grey might think he's calling the shots, but Ana is the one in charge. My mind flashes back to the morning she walked out on him – he was broken that day. I'm not saying she was any better, but it was still a fucking shock to see him in pieces.

I've learned that life can be short. When you find happiness, you run that fucker to the ground and hang onto it. Grey won't be such a stupid bastard to let her go again. That I can guarantee.

After a full day of sightseeing, Ana looks exhausted. That brings out Rayment's protective side and I can't help raising an eyebrow as he grumbles about 'that little girl' being all worn out. He glares at Grey. It's pretty fucking funny. If you're me.

The drive back is quiet. We're still in a convoy of three cars with the SUV – what Rayment calls a four-by-four which as it doesn't have 16 wheels makes no sense to me whatso-fucking-ever – in the middle. Which is good because Rayment's team have been discreet during the trip. The last thing Grey wanted was for Ana to feel like she was being watched all the time – which she is, of course. But I can do discreet, too. I wasn't born wearing a shit hot, made-to-measure suit. I can do casual. I mean, you're not going to catch me in Bermuda fucking shorts and a Hawaiian shirt because that shit just isn't cool, but my woman kitted me out with a couple of pairs of chinos and some polo shirts. The Korth kinda stands out, even under a linen jacket, but I am not going anywhere without my weapon. Grey hates it. But my motto is I'd rather have it and not want it, than want it and not have it. Because you only think that way once.

There's no news from Welch but I still feel uncomfortable keeping what little we know about the partial print from Grey. I know it's the right thing to do, but I also know my ass will be grass if he finds out. Make that _when_ he finds out.

There are a few details to iron out for the next leg of the journey which is to France. The security are ex-Legionnaires and served in the first Gulf War and Sarajevo. That was a bad fucking business. It'll be interesting to meet them. Welch says they're the best. They mostly work out of Dubai these days but Welch pulled some strings.

We're traveling to France by train – the Eurostar. I don't know if the boss is trying to do a trains, planes and automobiles or if he just wants to fuck on another form of transport. I don't give a shit – what I do care about is that this Eurostar goes _under_ the English Channel – that's _under_ the fucking sea. I know, but I'm a Marine – we go _on_ the sea – _on _the fucking sea. I am not a fucking submariner. That shit is just wrong on so many levels. I don't even like going in the Holland Tunnel, but at least that's only a mile and a half long. The Channel Tunnel is over 20 miles. Shit. That makes me nervous. If there's an accident or a fire, there's no way I can guarantee to get Ana and Grey out.

I shake away the dark thoughts and keep my eyes open as we effect the hand-over at Waterloo Station. And just to really put me off my fucking stride I've got those irritating fucking Abba lyrics going around in my head:

_And how could I ever refuse  
I feel like I win when I lose._

_Waterloo!_

I'm having an out-of-body experience.

Fuck me. I need a holiday.

When we get to the station, I head out first to meet the French security who are taking over from Rayment.

"JT, this is Philippe and Gaston Reynard."

_God help me – it's the Thomson Twins_. All I need now is Tintin and Snowy. Seriously? A pair of identical twins is the most discreet undercover security Rayment could find me?

My eyes swivel towards him and the bastard is about ready to burst at the expression on my face.

"Yeah I know, but don't sweat it, JT, they know what they're doing. Met up with them in Kuwait. Phil, Gazza, this is Jason Taylor, close protection for Mr. and Mrs. Grey."

"M'sieur," says Example A.

"Bonjour," says Example B.

"Why me?" says Example C (which is me). But I say it very, very quietly and determine to piss in Rayment's shoes next time we meet up.

We shake hands and Rayment signals he's out of there. I see relief on his face. I know where he's coming from: any job where the client doesn't get killed is another that you've won. He gets paid; he goes home. Job done.

There's a certain satisfaction in being able to hand over the responsibility. I don't say anything to Gail, but I think she gets what it's like for me. I'm never off duty – not really. Whether I'm with her, or with Sophie, I'm still working. Grey is pretty fair about it, but things still happen at the last minute. That's what I'm paid for. The weight gets heavy after a while.

From her guidebook-of-really-weird-British-shit, Ana informed us all that they used to kill witches by lying them down and putting a large stone over them. Then they'd add another stone, and another, and another, until the weight pressed down and killed you. Sometimes I feel like that – I feel the weight pressing down.

Or maybe it's just because this fucking train takes me under the sea and I can feel the pressure of tons of water waiting to squash me like a tiny little bug. Yeah, yeah.

Ana and the boss have hired their own carriage which has a private bedroom. I wonder what the opposite of the mile high club is, because the 'down under' has connotations that I really don't want to think about. And that's not even taking into account the Australians.

You know the old joke?

_The Land Down Under._

_Men at Work._

_Where do they work?_

I can't blame Grey – the bastard – but it leaves me fucking horny for Gail. So when I call her that night, I'm really hoping for some phone sex.

"Hey, baby. How are you?"

"Oh, Jason! It's so good to hear from you. I'm fine. I'm at Allison's."

_In the heart of the coven_.

"Yeah? Say hi. On second thought, don't say anything – she'll put a hex on me."

"Jason! That's my sister you're talking about!"

"I know, baby, but it felt like she tried to rip out my entrails last time I ate her cooking."

She giggles. God, I love that sound.

"I miss you, baby. And JT Junior _really_ misses you."

"Is that so? I'll have to see what I can do about that, but I'm actually standing in the middle of the food store at the moment."

_Oh_.

"Allison says hi."

"Okay," I mutter. "Keep a silver bullet handy."

"Bye, Jason!"

"Bye, baby."

And she's gone.

Things go smoothly in Paris. We visit the Left Bank of the Seine which is opposite the Right Bank – no shit – and visit some art galleries. We visit the Tuileries Palace that doesn't have a palace and look at some flowers. What a shock. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the opera, the ballet. It all goes smoothly.

And then we get to the South of France.

It's hot. It's sunny. It's by the ocean.

Ana gets her tits out.

The World Ends.

_To be continued…_

* The Prospect of Whitby  wiki/Prospect_of_Whitby

**Dedicated to Wendy Le Grand – I hope this made you smile. jhb x**


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33 – The French Connection

I'm not a violent man. That might seem like a contradiction in terms, having spent half my adult life as a Marine, and other half carrying a concealed gun to work, but it's not.

I mean, recruiters for the military tend to weed out those sorts of people, the ones with violent impulses.

Recruiting officer: Why do you want to join the military, son?"

Candidate: I want to kill people, sir.

Recruiting officer: Next.

The reasons for enlisting vary from person to person. Some, like me, are looking to get the hell away from home for whatever reason, and find an alternative family in the Marine Corps, Army or Navy. Perhaps not the Air Force because,

_I don't know_,

_but it's been said, _

_Air Force wings are made of lead_.

Yadda yadda yadda.

Some do it because they want to serve their country. The numbers wanting to enlist after 9/11 proved that. Got a lot of older guys who'd served wanting to come back, too. It was kind of humbling.

So when you sign on the dotted line, you have to be prepared to shoot, to hit your target, to kill. But we're also trained to identify a potential threat before it kicks off, to secure an area, to keep things _safe_. You don't want any gung-ho fucker on your team, a bullet magnet who's out to get themselves and everyone around them killed. When the chips are down, you gotta stay cool, you gotta stay calm.

I've worked with soldiers from pretty much every continent and – in the best trained armies – that coolness under pressure is a constant, regardless of race, color, creed or language.

I worked with some Dutch soldiers once. You could say it was an experience. Mellow – that's the word. Seriously laid back, which was kind of weird because they had conscription – the draft – in Holland up until the 90s. That surprised the shit out of me – you know – for the most laid back nation in the world, home of the hash-cookie café, and coffee shops where you can get a joint with your cappuccino, they still had conscription?

But that was nothing compared to some of the other shit they told me. Back in the day – back in the seventies, that is – when hippiedom was a way of life for half the western world, men grew their hair long. If you've ever seen _Big Wednesday_ or any of those 'Nam movies, you'll know that the first thing the military do is to shave your head. Makes you blend in – one of the team. It's also about breaking down the individual so you can be re-molded into a soldier. Makes it easier to keep clean, too. Whatever.

But the Dutch army, hell no. They weren't having any of that. The men liked their long hair. So what did they do? Camouflage hairnets. Nope, I am not shitting you. Although it took me a while to believe it, but yeah.

The Dutch are probably the most laid back soldiers I've ever met.

But, like I said, I'm not a violent man. My role is preventative: stop violence from happening before it can touch my boss, one Christian Grey.

But right now, right at this moment, I want to beat the ever-living shit out of him. I want to make the bastard bleed.

Since Titty-gate things have been tense.

Grey was not happy that his new wife was flashing her assets to the watching world. Not that anyone was paying that much attention – up until the boss lost it.

The Thomson Twins were bemused. Yeah, they'd checked out Ana's tits, made some appreciative noises and then checked out the area for paparazzi. Professional – see? I've seen a lot of tits and even though I really didn't want to see the new Mrs. Grey's happy-meals, I couldn't help glancing over when Siegfried and Roy were both looking in the same direction. I closed my eyes, wincing internally.

I was now in the extremely delicate position of protecting Ana's rep, while trying not to embarrass either her or myself. I was ten damn seconds too long making a decision.

The Kraken came dripping out of the sea, hissing and spitting.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yells at her.

Siegfried and Roy blink. Yeah, they've never seen the boss have a tantrum. Watch and learn. Watch and learn.

They're not entirely sure what the problem is, but when Grey tosses Ana's bikini top at her, they get the picture, whispering something about, "Ces Américains," and exchange amused glances.

I really feel for Ana, especially when Grey snarls,

"I'm sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!"

_Way to make her feel better, Grey_.

But this isn't about Grey making his wife feel better, this is about jealousy and possession, and Ana has violated rule number one: what's hers is his, and what's his is his.

Like the first trickle of snow that presages an avalanche, I know that this isn't the end of his rage. The man is barely hanging on by a thread. If he starts frothing at the mouth and drooling, I'll have to decide whether to shoot him or shoot myself because I've got a feeling I'm shit out of a job either way.

All the same, I realize the seriousness of the situation and I can't help the icy shiver trickling down my spine: Grey wouldn't hurt her, would he?

He throws me a coolly challenging look as he heads back to the _Fair Lady_.

_What do you want me say, buddy? She's your wife – I just work here_.

Back on board the yacht, I leave them to talk it over, or whatever passes for discussion in their relationship, sorry, their marriage. I'm not sure Grey will ever cool down when it comes to Ana – the guy burns for her.

In the security center, I check Welch's updated incident report on _Charlie Tango_. They're still finding matches for the partial thumb print. It may seem like a needle in the proverbial haystack, but narrowing down a few hundred thousand potential matches just needs sophisticated software and attention to detail: Welch has both.

My cell phone rings, distracting me from the dark train of my thoughts.

"Hey, Ros. How are you?"

"Peachy with a slice of pie," she says dryly, and I wonder if the job has driven her to drink. "How's it going on the love boat?"

"Let's just say I'd rather chew off my foot up to my eyeballs than stay here much longer, and I'm _really _looking forward to gray and rainy Seattle, Ros."

She sniggers.

"I thought honeymoons were supposed to be romantic?"

"I'm not on _my _honeymoon," I remind her. "I'm working."

She sighs. "Yes, I know. About that. I need to speak to Christian. Is he available?"

"Sure, Ros. Give me a minute."

On deck, Grey and Ana seem to be having a quiet drink, but she and I both know that appearances are deceptive. About the quiet – not about the drink.

"Sir, you have a call."

I hand him my BlackBerry as he frowns, tension rising from him. Yeah, I'm just the messenger.

"Grey."

I edge away discreetly and wait until the call is finished. Ana's expression is distant and I can't help wondering what she's thinking. I don't think she has regrets about her marriage, but it's a lot for her to take on. I know how she feels. I mean, not just about Grey, which a fuck-ton of grief, whichever way you look at it, but marriage itself. I got married at 22 and look what a fucking disaster that was. You know your marriage is in trouble when you'd rather face the Taliban than your own wife.

But at least I got a beautiful daughter out of it – I guess we must have done something right after all.

Grey hands me back the phone and I hear him telling Ana to finish her drink. My guess is they're going for one of their fuckathons. Well, it _is_ a honeymoon. I am so glad my office is at the bow and a looong way from the happy couple.

The _Fair Lady_ slips through the black water and leaves the coastal lights behind. We're floating in darkness, the only bright light in an entire ocean – at least that's how it feels. And I'd guess that's how Grey feels about his Ana.

Three hours later, Grey comes to find me, having told the skipper that he wants to head for Cannes.

"What's the update on _Charlie Tango_, Taylor?"

"The investigative team from Donauwörth are still working on it." I pause, but he knows there's something I'm holding back, so he simply waits. "They've found a partial thumb print on the swashplate. It doesn't belong to anyone at Boeing Airfield. We're running it through the FBI database and Interpol – nothing concrete so far."

He swears softly and tugs his hands through his hair. I've known him long enough to know that he's frustrated. Billion dollar deals don't faze the guy, but anything that touches Ana, and he just about loses his mind.

He nods abruptly and leaves the office, each of us alone with our thoughts.

It's the following day that I come close to letting Grey see a seriously pissed off former Marine up close and personal.

I've told Roy Roger and Trigger that we're heading to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, a 60km drive, which is about 35 miles in the good ole US of A. Roy – or it might be Trigger – tells me that most of the route is pretty much donkey tracks, so it'll probably take the best part of two hours. I hope the suspension is up to the job.

As Ana gets into the SUV we've rented, I see broad red welts on both wrists. And both ankles. _What the fuck?_

Shit. Handcuffs. That fucker has actually used _metal handcuffs_ on his _wife_.

I know my mouth is pressing into a thin line and I have to try really fucking hard not to deck the bastard Grey there and then.

_Really fucking hard_.

Seeing Ana marked up like that is a hard limit for me.

I'm not the only one.

Even the mean-as-fuck former Legionnaires look shocked and one of them mutters something about _Monsieur de Sade_. They're not wrong.

The only thing that stops me from doing anything rash is the look on Grey's face. For the second time since I met him, I see… shame_._

And from their body language I can tell that _Ana_ is comforting _him_.

_Strong, Mrs. Grey, very strong_.

Philippe is unusually quiet on the drive. I can see his eyes flicking across to the rearview mirror, studying Ana and Grey as if he's trying to solve a math problem.

_Good luck with that, buddy_. Hell, the bastard boss has been paying John Flynn for three years to sort out his shit. I reckon Ana's done more to turn Grey into a human being in a few months, although obviously it's a work in progress. Obviously.

We park at one of the large hotels that are scattered around the hilltop town, then discreetly follow Ana and Grey through the crowds of tourists and locals. It's hard to stay focused when it feels like a damn holiday – too easy to relax and take your eye off the ball.

One guy I knew who was in this line of business used to put a small stone in his boot when he was working. Said the irritation kept him sharp. Mad fucker.

Grey stops outside an art gallery and Philippe raises his eyebrows when he sees the large black-and-white photographs of women in various S&M poses. For all I know, Grey planned ahead and sent his personal collection to make him feel at home.

"Don't ask," I mutter.

Philippe looks amused but wisely keeps his damn mouth shut.

The happy couple wander around some more and I'm getting bored. Grey never moves this slowly usually, and it's fucking irritating. I can feel a headache coming on and I've really had enough of being away from home. I miss the large, gray skies of Seattle; I miss Sophie's evening Skype-time; I miss Gail. Fuck, I miss her.

Finally, Ana indicates that she's ready to head back. But not until Grey has bought her a heavy bangle worth more than some people's annual income. It's to hide the cuff-welt on her wrist. Yeah, the bastard is feeling guilty as all hell – and he's just learned a harsh truth: money can't buy you happiness, it can only make your misery more comfortable. The bracelet covers the marks, but it hasn't so much as put a chip in the guilt that paints his face. Live and learn, you dumb bastard. Third time around, you might not be so lucky.

When the privacy panel slides up thirty minutes into the ride back, Philippe's facial expression doesn't alter. We've both had to deal with the annoyance of having clients car-fuck while we're driving. I think some of them get off on the exhibition aspect of it, even if we can't see anything. Some of them just want you to know that they don't give a shit about the little people who work for them.

Grey has never cared that I know about his sex life. Although he's been a lot more private about it since he met Ana. And I qualify that statement with the thought that CCTV in an apartment where the boss has a thing about fucking on every flat surface in the place, doesn't offer a lot of privacy. Hell, I could have made a fortune selling that shit to the porn channels. I think I've erased more footage in the last four years than Kelly Divine has had hot… um… dinners.

Suddenly, the privacy panel slides back down and I can see Grey scowling at his cell phone.

"Anyone injured? Damage?"

_What the fuck?_

"I see… When? No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway. Has he? Good… Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the cleaning staff. Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me… Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold."

_Argon_. He must be talking to Barney and it sounds like there's been a fire at Grey House – it's not the apartment because that has a regular foam/water sprinkler system.

"Email me in two hours… No, I need to know. Thank you for calling me."

He catches my eye in the mirror as he makes another call.

"Welch… Good. When? An hour then… yes… twenty-four-seven at the offsite data store… good."

I feel adrenaline heat my blood but with nowhere to go and no bastard to get my hands on, all I can do is watch and listen.

"Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour."

"Monsieur."

And it's pedal to the metal as the SUV picks up speed.

I hear Grey tell Ana, "We don't know for sure that it was arson."

This is one lie I can forgive.

Back on board, Grey calls a war cabinet. Barney and Welch are video conferencing with us.

"Barney, what's the estimated damage?"

"Two servers, and a ton load of cabling, Mr. Grey. The ambient oxygen level dropped so quickly, it stopped the fire from spreading."

"Data loss?"

"None. All maintained by the back-up protocols, sir."

"Welch – thoughts?"

"Whoever did this was clever, but my guess is that the aim was to let you know you know you were vulnerable rather than to do damage. Someone is sending you a message."

Grey turns to me. "Taylor? Do you concur?"

"Yes, sir. My recommendation is that we review your list of known enemies."

He sighs. "I know."

"We'd have to include all the recent redundancies," Welch adds.

Grey nods at the computer screen.

"And Jack Hyde," I say quietly.

Grey turns his cold eyes on me.

"Yes, add him to the list," he says.

We agree to increase the security at Grey House and upgrade the remote server from 'always-invoked' to 'evaluatable' on the MILS system. Personal security for all the Greys is increased. That isn't going to go down well. I hope Luke Sawyer has his Kevlar on hand because Mia Grey is going to kick the shit out of him when she finds out he's her new best friend.

Once Welch and Barney have signed off, I take a deep breath and bring up a tricky topic.

"Sir, are you going to alert Mrs. Grey to the increased security she'll be subject to?"

I can see him wincing, but he's adamant.

"No, she doesn't need to have that additional concern."

I think he's wrong, but I've raised the matter and now I have to let it drop.

"I'm going to my office, Taylor. Tell Andrea to call me."

"Yes, sir."

I need to think. There's something about this that's bugging me. It's the same irritating fucking feeling as when that Williams woman was haunting the apartment – a feeling that I've forgotten something. If I could just pull the memory out, I'd have the answer.

For me, the best way to think is to try and switch off – try and let my subconscious wrestle with the problem.

I pick up my book and concentrate on immersing myself in a story of Cold War espionage, _Tremor of Intent, _populated by amoral creeps amid a welter of sex, gluttony, violence, treachery, and, um, religion. Fun times. I should have stuck to Arthur C. Clarke.

The pages blur before my eyes and I'm another lifetime away when I see Ana's anxious face peering through the door.

"I'd like to go shopping."

_Really?_ Ana hates shopping. But mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do and die. Or some shit.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'd like to take the Jet Ski."

_Oh fuck_.

"Um…"

"I don't want to bother Christian with this."

_I bet you don't_.

"Mrs. Grey… um… I don't think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that… and I'd like to keep my job."

She scowls, then knocks on Grey's door and marches in.

The conversation is brief. Probably too brief. There's no way Grey would agree to putting his angel in danger, but Ana comes out smiling brightly.

_I stand corrected_.

"That's all cleared with high command. Can we go?"

Jeez, sometimes Grey must feel like he's caught a tiger by the tail. Atta girl, Ana!

Once she's wearing her life-vest, I take my time teaching her, double- and triple-checking that she understands.

"Okay, Mrs. Grey. Just take it all real slow. Don't try and go too fast when you're still learning."

I point out the key features. "These levers behind the handle bars control the velocity. Squeeze the lever gently – that will increase your speed; let it go slowly, and your speed will decrease."

She nods impatiently.

"Try and stay away from other personal water craft – you want to keep where the water isn't too choppy, at least to begin with. Once you're out there, avoid tight turns, because those will increase your chance of you turning turtle – just make wide, gentle turns, okay?"

"Fine, Taylor. Can I go now?"

I continue as if she hasn't interrupted me.

"Gently turn the handles, just like riding a bike. Okay, I'm going to push you away from the boat before you start. Then slide in the ignition key and start the engine. Once you're idling, you can experiment with the speed. Take it slow, Mrs. Grey. Slow, okay?"

She rolls her eyes at me.

"Slow. I've got it. Okay."

"And fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall off, the engine will cut out automatically."

"Okaaay."

"Ready?"

"Press the ignition when you've drifted about four feet away from the boat. We'll follow you."

"Okay."

I push the Jet Ski gently, then give her a thumbs up.

She smiles this huge grin that lights up her face and I can't help smiling back.

As she starts the engine, I feel a frisson of anxiety for her.

"Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy does it."

She stalls and immediately colors up.

"Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey."

She mutters something and tries again. The Jet Ski lurches forward like it's fueled by kangaroo juice but then she gets the hang of it. She does a couple of fast circuits of the _Fair Lady_, grinning and whooping like a loon.

Gaston shakes his head, smiling.

"Elle a une soif de vie, n'est-ce pas?"

_She sure does._

Ana turns and heads for the harbor and we follow, careful not to get ahead of her. She's not skilled enough to cope with the wake coming off of the powerboat.

And then I see Grey charging onto the deck.

_Oh shit._ Ana, what did you do?

My cell rings and I have to hold it away from my ear as the boss blasts me for a) putting his wife's life in danger – _ah, come on_, and b) falling for her story that Grey had given her permission – _guilty as charged_.

He also _orders_ me that she's to travel back on the powerboat. Yeah, that's going to go down well.

"Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey," I say, as calmly as possible when we reach the jetty. "And, um, Mr. Grey is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski." Which is an understatement of Biblical proportions – I'm talking Walls of Jericho here.

_Oh fuck-a-doodle-do!_ Ana is laughing at me. She's fucking _laughing _at me!

Then she smiles serenely.

"I see. Well, Taylor. Mr. Grey is not here, and if he's not entirely comfortable," she bats my words back to me with ease, "I'm sure he'll give me the courtesy of telling me himself when I'm back on board."

_Ouch._ Home run to the boss's bride.

"Very good, Mrs. Grey."

I wonder if Grey knows that he's now the Sub in their relationship?

Two torturous hours of unrelieved tedium later (aka _shopping_), we're back on board and thanks to Ana's man management, I haven't been fired, demoted, or flayed alive.

Things are looking up.

For nearly a whole minute.

I knock on Grey's office door, expecting to be chewed out, parade-ground style. Instead, he looks up, his face unnaturally calm.

"Welch called. It's arson."

"Oh, fuck."

"If they're after me… if they're sending me a message… Ana… Mrs. Grey…"

"They won't touch her, sir. I give you my word."

He nods slowly.

"Thank you, Taylor." He rubs his forehead, his eyes dark and scared. "I think I'll go and see my wife now."

He pauses outside the office and I see him square his shoulders and put his game face on. I don't think that'll fool Ana – she'll see right through him. She always does.

I pick up the phone and call Welch.

"Taylor – you've spoken to Grey?"

"Yes."

"Okay, here's what we know. A maintenance guy turned up two days ago. It was a new man, but from our regular contractor. Or so we thought. He had the firm's van and valid ID. Security had no reason not to let him in. It turns out it was totally bogus – the ID was forged and the van was stolen three days ago. This was planned. Calculated."

"And?"

"What worries me is that he could have done a lot more damage with the access that he had. So the question is, what else does he have planned?"

"No, Welch. The question is, who is the fucker, and where can I lay my hands on him?"

"We're working on it. We'll isolate the CCTV but he was careful: keeping his eyes down, wearing a hat. I'd say he'd scoped the place before so he knew where the cameras were placed. Because we don't know _when_ that happened, there's a lot of footage to get through."

"Yeah, okay."

"Do you think Grey will cut short the honeymoon?"

"He hasn't said anything yet, but I wouldn't be surprised. I'll let you know a-sap."

We finish up the call and I do the one thing that will soothe me.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings.

Finally, I get her voicemail.

"_Hello, this is Gail Jones. I can't take your call right now, but please your name, number and a short message and I'll get right back to you_."

I don't speak. I press _end_. I phone back again, just to hear her voice. And again. And again.

Later that night, the boss texts me:

* Tell Andrea I want flights to Seattle asap. Fastest route. Commercial airline. *

He doesn't even want to wait for his private jet to be sent from JFK. Yeah, he's worried.

And we're going home.

_Oo-rah!_

**Hey, lovely people! Thanks for sticking with Taylor's story. He'll ride again soon as we gallop towards the end of **_**Fifty Shades Freed**_**.**

**In the mean time, my new book 'Dangerous to Know & Love' is out on May 17. Check out Amazon and Smashwords for details. jhb**


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